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CHARLES    DUDLEY    WARM  k 

EDITOR 

HAMILTON   WRIGHT   MABIE 
LUCIA  GILBERT   RUNKLE 
GEORGE   HENRY   WARNER 

CHARLES  &^cBhBy^  W<A&NER. 
Photogravure  —  From  Life. 


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ANCIENT    AND     MODERN 


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CHARLES    DUDLEY    WARNER 

EDITOR 

HAMILTON   WRIGHT   MABIE 
LUCIA   GILBERT    RUNKLE 
GEORGE   HENRY   WARNER 
ASSOCIATE  EDITORS 


Edition     &eXuxc 

THIRTY-ONE  VOLUMES 
Vol.  I. 


..  X 


NEW   YORK 

J.  A.  HILL  &  COMPANY 


THE  ADVISORY  COUNCIL 


CRAWFORD  H.  TOY.  A.  M.,  LL.  D., 

Professor  of  Hebrew,     Harvard  University,  Cambridge,  Mass. 

THOMAS  R.  LOUNSBURY,  LL.  D.,  L.  H.  D.,  ^ 

Professor  of  English  in  the  Sheffield  Scientific  School  of 

Yale  University,  New  Haven,  Conn 

WILLIAM  M.  SLOANE,  Ph.  D.,  L.  H.  D., 

Professor  of  History  and  Political  Science, 

Princeton  University,  Princeton,  N.  J. 

BRANDER  MATTHEWS,  A.  M.,  LL.  B., 

Professor  of  Literature,    Columbia  University,  New  York  City. 

JAMES  B.  ANGELL,  LL.  D., 

President  of  the        University  of  Michigan,  Ann  Arbor,  Mich. 

WILLARD  FISKE;  A.  M.,  Ph.  D., 

Late  Professor  of  the   Germanic  and  Scandinavian  Languages 
and  Literatures,  Cornell  University,  Ithaca,  N.  Y. 

EDWARD  S.  HOLDEN,  A.  M.,  LL.  D., 

Director  of  the  Lick  Observatory,  and  Astronomer, 

University  of  California,  Berkeley,  Cal. 

ALCEE  FORTIER,  Lit.  D., 

Professor  of  the  Romance  Languages, 

TuLANE  University,  New  Orleans,  La. 

WILLIAM  P.  TRENT,  M.  A., 

Dean  of  the  Department  of  Arts  and  Sciences,  and  Professor  of 
English  and  History, 

University  of  the  South,  Sewanee,  Tenn. 

PAUL  SHOREY,  Ph.  D., 

Professor  of  Greek  and  Latin  Literature, 

University  of  Chicago,  Chicago,  IIL 

WILLIAM  T.  HARRIS,  LL.  D., 

United  States  Commissioner  of  Education, 
'  Bureau  of  Education,  Washington,  D.  C. 

MAURICE  FRANCIS  EGAN,  A.  M.,  LL.  D.. 
Professor  of  Literature  in  the 

Catholic  University  of  America,  Washington,  D.  C. 


822971 


NOTE  OF  ACKNOWLEDGMENT 


(wing  to  the  many  changes  in  the  assignment  of  topics  and 
engagfing  of  writers  incident  to  so  extended  a  publication 
as  the  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature,  the  Editor 
nnds  it  impossible,  before  the  completion  of  the  work,  adequately 
to  recognize  the  very  great  aid  which  he  has  received  from  a  large 
number  of  persons.  A  full  list  of  contributors  will  be  given  in  one 
of  the  concluding  volumes.  He  will  expressly  acknowledge  also  his 
debt  to  those  who  have  assisted  him  editorially,  or  in  other  special 
ways,  in  the  preparation  of  these  volumes. 

Both  Editor  and  Publishers  have  endeavored  to  give  full  credit  to 
every  author  quoted,  and  to  accompany  every  citation  with  ample 
notice  of  copyright  ownership.  At  the  close  of  the  work  it  is  their 
purpose  to  express  in  a  more  formal  way  their  sense  of  obligation  to 
the  many  publishers  who  have  so  courteously  g^ven  permission  for 
this  use  of  their  property,  and  whose  rights  of  ownership  it  is  intended 
thoroughly  to  protect 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 
VOL.  I 


LIVED 

PAGE 

Abelard  and  Heloise 

1079-^142 

17 

BY  THOMAS    DAVIDSON 

Letters  of  Heloise  to  Abelard 
Abelard' s  Answer  to  Heloise 
Vesper  Hymn  of  Abelard 

Edmond    About  1828-1885  34 

The  Capture  (<  The  King  of  the  Mountains  0 
Hadgi-Stavros  (same) 

The    Victim  ('The  Man  with  the   Broken  Ear*) 
The  Man  Without  a  Country  (same) 

Accadian-Babylonian    and    Assyrian    Literature  51 

BY  CRAWFORD    H.  TOY 

Theogony  Adapa  and  the  Southwind 

Revolt  of  Tiamat  Penitential  Psalms 

Descent  to  the  Underworld  Inscription  of   Sennacherib 

The  Flood  Invocation  to  the  Goddess 

The  Eagle  and  the  Snake  Beltis 

The  Flight  of  Etana  Oracles  of  Ishtar  of  Arbela 

The  God  Zu  An  Erechite's   Lament 

Abigail  Adams  1744-1818  84 

BY  LUCIA    GILBERT   RUNKLE 

Letters — To  her  Husband:    May  24,  1775;   June  15,  1775; 
June  iS,  177s;   Nov.  27,  1775;  April  20,  1777; 
June  8,  1779 
To    hei    Sister:     Sept.    5,    1784;     May   10,    1785; 

Jvdy  24,  1784;  Jvine  24.  1785 
To  her  Niece 


H 

LIVED  PAGE 

Henry  Adams  1838-  no 

Auspices    of   the    War   of    1812    (*  History   of   the    United 

States  >) 
What  the  War  of  181 2  Demonstrated  (same) 
Battle  between  the  Constitution  and  the  Guerriere  (same) 

John  Adams  i 735-1826  127 

At  the  French  Court  (<  Diary  >) 

Character  of  Franklin  (Letter  to  the  Boston  Patriot) 

John  Quincy  Adams  i 767-1848  135 

Letter  to  his  Father,  at  the  Age  of  Ten 

From  the  Memoirs,  at  the  Age  of  Eighteen 

From  the  Memoirs,  Jan.   14,    1831;   June  7,   1833;   Sept.  9, 

1833 
The  Mission  of  America  (Fourth  of  July  Oration,   1821) 
The  Right  of  Petition  (Speech  in  Congress) 
Nullification  (Fourth  of  July  Oration,   1831) 

Sarah  Flower  Adams  1805-1848  146 

He  Sendeth  Sun,  He  Sendeth  Shower 
Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee 

Joseph  Addison  1672-1719  149 

BY  HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE 

Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  at  the  Play  (The  Spectator) 

Visit  to  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  (same) 

Vanity  of  Human  Life  (same) 

Essay  on  Fans  (same) 

Hymn,  <The  Spacious  Firmament*  (same) 

^lianus  Claudius  Second  Century  173 

Of  Certain   Notable   Men   that  made   themselves  Playfel- 
lows with  Children 
Of   a   Certaine    Sicilian   whose   Eysight   was   WoonderfuU 

Sharpe  and  Quick 
The  Lawe  of  the  Lacedaemonians  against  Covetousness 
That  Sleep  is  the  Brother  of  Death,  and  of  Gorgias  draw- 
ing to  his  End 
Of  the  Voluntary  and  Willing  Death  of  Calanus 
Of   Delicate   Dinners,    Sumptuous   Suppers,  and   Prodigall 
Banqueting 


lU 

UVKD  PAGE 

^LiANUS  Claudius — Continued: 

Of   Bestowing   Time,  and    how   Walking   Up   and   Downe 

was  not  Allowable  among  the  Lacedaemonians 
How   Socrates   Suppressed  the   Pryde   and    Hautinesse   of 

Alcibiades 
Of  Certaine  Wastegoodes  and  Spendthriftes 

/EscHiNES  B.  C.  389-314  179 

A  Defense  and  an  Attack  (<  Oration  against  Ctesiphon') 

^SCHYLUS  B.  C.   525-456  184 

BY  JOHN  WILLIAMS  WHITE 

Complaint  of  Prometheus  (<  Prometheus  *) 

Prayer  to  Artemis  (<The  Suppliants*) 

Defiance  of  Eteocles  (<The  Seven  against  Thebes*) 

Vision  of  Cassandra  (< Agamemnon  *) 

Lament  of  the  Old  Nurse  (<The  Libation-Pourers  *) 

Decree  of  Athena  (<The  Eumenides*) 

-iEsop  Seventh  Century  B.  C.  201 

BY  HARRY  THURSTON   PECK 

The  Fox  and  the  Lion  The  Belly  and  the  Members 

The  Ass  in  the  Lion's  Skin  The  Satyr  and  the  Traveler 

The  Ass  Eating  Thistles  The  Lion  and  the  Other  Beasts 

The  Wolf  in  Sheep's  Clothing  The  Ass  and  the  Little  Dog 

The  Countryman  and  the  The  Country  Mouse  and  the 

Snake  City  Mouse 
The  Dog  and  the  Wolf 

Jean  Louis  Rodolphe  Agassiz  1807-1873  211 

The  Silurian  Beach  (<  Geological  Sketches  *) 
Voices  (<  Methods  of  Study  in  Natural  History  *) 
Formation  of  Coral  Reefs  (same) 

Agathias  a.  D.  536-581  224 

Apostrophe  to  Plutarch 

Grace  Aguilar  1816-1847  225 

Greatness  of  Friendship  (< Woman's  Friendship*) 

Order  of  Knighthood  (<  The  Days  of  Bruce*)  "^ 

Culprit  and  Ju-^ge  (*  Home  Influence*) 


LIVED 

PAGE 

1805-1882 

237 

I721-1770 

253 

IV 


William  Harrison  Ainsworth 

Students  of  Paris  (<  Crichton  >) 

Mark  Akenside 

From  the  Epistle  to  Curio 

Aspirations  after  the  Infinite  (<  Pleasures  of  the  Imagina- 
tion >) 
On  a  Sermon  against  Glory 

Pedro  Antonio  de  Alarc6n  1833-1891  263 

A   Woman   Viewed  from   Without   (*The   Three-Cornered 

Hat>) 
How  the  Orphan  Manuel  gained  his  Sobriquet  (^  The  Child 

of  the  BalP) 

ALCiEUS  Sixth  Century  B.  C.  269 

The  Palace  The  Storm 

A  Banquet  Song  The  Poor  Fisherman 

An  Invitation  The  State 

Poverty 

BaltAzar  de  AlcAzar  i53o?-i6o6  273 

Sleep 

The  Jovial  Supper 

Alciphron  Second  Century  276 

BY  HARRY  THURSTON  PECK 

From  a  Mercenary  Girl  —  Petala  to  Simalion 
Pleasures  of  Athens  —  Euthydicus  to  Epiphanio 
From  an  Anxious  Mother  —  Phyllis  to  Thrasonides 
From  a  Curious  Youth  —  Philocomus  to  Thestylus 
From  a  Professional  Diner-out  —  Capnosphrantes  to  Aris 

tomachus 
Unlucky  Luck  —  Chytrolictes  to  Patellocharon 

Alcman  Seventh  Century  B.  C.  282 

Poem  on  Night 

Louisa  May  Alcott  1832-1888  283 

The  Night  Ward  (<  Hospital  Sketches  >) 
Amy's  Valley  of  Humiliation  (< Little  Women*) 
Thoreau's  Flute  (Atlantic  Monthly) 
Song  from  the  Suds  (< Little  Women*) 


lived  page 

Alcuin  735?-8o4  .  296 

BY  WILLIAM  H.  CARPENTER 

On  the   Saints   of  the  Church  at  York  (<Alcuin  and  the 

Rise  of  the  Christian  Schools*) 
Disputation   between   Pepin,   the   Most   Noble   and   Royal 

Youth,  and  Albinus  the  Scholastic 
A  Letter  from  Alcuin  to  Charlemag^ne 

Henry  M.  Alden  1836-  304 

A  Dedication  — To  My  Beloved  Wife  CA  Study  of  Death*) 

The  Dove  and  the  Serpent  (same) 

Death  and  Sleep  (same) 

The  Parable  of  the  Prodigal  (same) 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  1836-                    313 

Destiny  Broken  Music 

Identity  Elmwood 

Prescience  '      Sea  Longings 

Alec  Yeaton's  Son  A  Shadow  of  the  Night 

Memory  Outward  Bound 

Tennyson  (1890)  Reminiscence 

Sweetheart,  Sigh  No  More  Pere  Antoine's  Date-Palm 
Miss  Mehetabel's  Son 

Aleardo  Aleardi  181 2-1878  350 

Cowards  (^  The  Primal  Histories  *) 
The  Harvesters  (*  Monte  Circello*) 
The  Death  of  the  Year  (<An  Hour  of  My  Youth*) 

Jean  Le  Rond  d'Alembert  17 17-1783  355 

Montesquieu  (Eulogy  in  the  *  Encyclopedic  *) 

VlTTORIO    AlFIERI  1749-1803  37I 

BY  L.  OSCAR  KUHNS 

Scenes  from  ^Agamemnon  * 

Alfonso  the  Wise  1226-1284  383 

"What  Meaneth   a  Tyrant,  and  How  he  Useth  his  Power 

(<Las  Siete  Partidas*) 
On   the   Turks,  and  Why  they  are   So   Called  (<  La  Gran 

Conquista  de  Ultramar*) 
To  the  Month  of  Mary  (^  Cantigas  *) 


VI 

UVED  PAGE 

Alfred  the  Great  849-901  389 

King  Alfred  on  King-Craft  (*Boethius>) 
Alfred's  Preface  to  the  Version  of  Pope  Gregory's  *  Pas- 
toral Care* 
Blossom  Gatherings  from  St.  Augustine 
Where  to  Find  True  Joy  (<Boethius>) 
A  Sorrowful  Fytte  (same) 

Charles  Grant  Allen  1841-1899  399 

The  Coloration  of  Flowers  (*  The  Colors  of  Flowers ') 
Among  the  Heather  (<  The  Evolutionist  at  Large  >) 
The  Heron's  Haunt  (<  Vignettes  from  Nature  >) 

James  Lane  Allen  1850-  409 

A  Courtship  (<A  Summer  in  Arcady  >) 

Old  King  Solomon's  Coronation  (<  Flute  and  Violin  >) 

William  Allingham  i 828-1 889  428 

The  Ruined  Chapel  The  Fairies 

The  Winter  Pear  Robin  Redbreast 

O  Spirit  of  the  Summer-time  An  Evening 

The  Bubble  Daffodil 

St.  Margaret's  Eve  Lovely  Mary  Donnelly 

Karl  Jonas  Ludvig  Almquist  i  793-1866  439 

Characteristics  of  Cattle 

A  New  Undine  (from  *The  Book  of  the  Rose*) 

God's  War 

Johanna  Ambrosius  1854-  446 

A  Peasant's  Thoughts  Do  Thou  Love,  Too! 

Struggle  and  Peace  Invitation 

Edmondo  de  Amicis  1846-  453 

The  Light  (<  Constantinople  *) 

Resemblances  (same) 

Birds  (same) 

Cordova  (^  Spain  >) 

The  Land  of  Pluck  (<  Holland  and  Its  People  >) 

The  Dutch  Masters  (same) 


vu 


Henri  Fri^d^ric  Amiel 


LIVED 

1821-1881 


PAGE 

479 


BY  RICHARD  BURTON 


Extracts  from  Amiel's  Journal: 

Christ's  Real  Message 

Duty 

Joubert 

Greeks  vs.  Modems 

Nature,     and     Teutonic     and 
Scandinavian  Poetry 

Training  of  Children 

Wagner's  Music 

Secret  of  Remaining  Young 

Results  of  Equality 

View-Points  of  History 

Introspection    and    Schopen- 
hauer 

Music  and  the  Imagination 


Love  and  the  Sexes 
Fundamentals  of  Religion 
Dangers  from  Decay  of  Ear- 
nestness 
Woman's  Ideal  the  Commu- 
nity's Fate 
French  Self-Consciousness 
Frivolous  Art 
Critical  Ideals 
The  Best  Art 
The  True  Critic 
Spring  —  Universal  Religion 
Introspective  Meditations 
Destiny  (just  before  death) 


Anacreon 

B.  C.  562  ?-477 

Drinking 

The  Grasshopper 

Age 

The  Swallow 

The  Epicure 

The  Poet's  Choice 

Gold 

Drinking 

A  Lover's 

Sigh 

49- 


Hans  Christian  Andersen 


1805-1875 


500 


BY  BENJAMIN  W.  WELLS 


The  Steadfast  Tin  Soldier 

The  Teapot 

The  Ugly  Duckling 

What  the  Moon  Saw 

The  Lovers 

The  Snow  Queen 

The  Nightingale 

The  Market  Place  at  Odense  (<  Story  of  My  X,ife  >) 

The  Andersen  Jubilee  at  Odense  (same) 

< Miserere*  in  the  Sixtine  Chapel  (<The  Improvisatore *) 

Aneurin  Sixth  Century 

The  Slaying  of  Owain 

The  Fate  of  Hoel.  Son  of  the  Great  Cian 

The  Giant  Gwrveling  Falls  at  Last 


539 


Vlll 

LIVED  PAGE 

Anglo-Saxon  Literature  543 

by  robert  sharp 

From  *  Beowulf  >  The  Fortunes  of  Men 

Deor's  Lament  From  <  Judith  > 

From  <The  Wanderer  >  The  Fight  at  Maldon 

The  Seafarer  Caedmon's  Inspiration 

From  the  ^Chronicle* 

Gabriele  d'Annunzio  1864-  574 

The  Drowned  Boy  (<The  Triumph  of  Death  >) 
To  an  Impromptu  of  Chopin  (same) 
India 

Antar  About  550-615  586 

BY  EDWARD   S.  HOLDEN 
The  Valor  of  Antar 

Lucius  Apuleius  Second  Century  597 

The  Tale  of  Aristomenes,  the  Commercial  Traveler  (<  The 

Metamorphoses  >) 
The  Awakening  of  Cupid  (same) 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARiNER 

(1829-1900) 

AN     APPRECIATION 

Charles  Dudley  Warner  was  not  only  an  accomplished  writer: 
he  was  also  a  representative  man  of  letters.  The  interests 
of  literature  were  as  dear  to  him  as  his  own  interests,  and 
he  cared  more  for  the  expression  of  the  life  of  the  country  in  books  of 
superior  insight  and  quality  than  for  personal  success.  He  not  only 
enriched  American  literature  with  his  various  and  delightful  gifts  of 
humor,  sentiment,  wit,  observation  and  style,  but  he  strove  with  pen 
and  voice  to  advance  its  interests  and  increase  its  authority.  In  the 
range  of  his  interests,  the  dignity  of  his  life  and  the  charm  of  his 
manner  he  was  a  representative  of  all  that  was  best  in  American  life. 

His  ancestry  was  of  the  best,  for  he  came  of  good  New  England  stock. 
He  was  bom  on  the  12th  day  of  September,  1829,  in  Plainfield,  a  small 
Massachusetts  village;  his  father  being  one  of  the  largest  farmers  and 
the  owner  of  the  best  library  in  the  section.  In  a  characteristic  essay 
Mr.  Warner  has  left  a  very  intimate  impression  of  a  New  England  child- 
hood, and  has  interpreted  the  simplicity,  domesticity,  integrity  and 
manly  independence  of  the  best  New  England  character. 

When  the  time  for  entering  college  came,  Mr.  Warner  chose  one  of  the 
best-known  institutions  of  central  New  York;  a  college  which  has  put  a 
distinctive  stamp  upon  a  large  number  of  men  of  ability  in  different 
walks  of  life.  Life  at  Clinton  in  those  days  was  very  simple,  and  the 
college  endowments  were  small,  but  there  were  competent  teachers  and 
there  was  enthusiasm  among  the  best  students  for  the  best  things  in 
thought  and  life. 

After  his  graduation  from  Hamilton  College  in  1851,  Mr.  Warner 
joined  a  surveying  party  and  made  intimate  acquaintance  with  out-of- 
doors  life  in  Missouri.  This  excursion  into  what  was  then  a  compara- 
tively new  section  of  country  was  succeeded  by  attendance  on  the  Law 
department  of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania.  Many  American  writers 
have  found  their  way  into  literature  by  way  of  the  Lav.  The  sign 
*W.  C.  Bryant,  Att'y  at  Law,"  once  hung  on  the  main  street  of  a  New 

(a) 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 

England  village,  and  Lowell  humorously  declared  that  to  him  law 
meant  an  office  and  nothing  more.  Graduating  in  1856,  Mr.  Warner 
began  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  Chicago,  and  for  four  years  en- 
deavored to  reconcile  himself  to  the  work  of  an  uncongenial  occupation. 
At  the  end  of  that  time,  having  discovered  the  real  bent  of  his  mind,  he 
wisely  gave  up  the  struggle  to  do  work  for  which  he  was  not  adapted, 
came  East  and  secured  a  position  on  the  ®Press*  of  Hartford,  Conn. 
In  1867,  when  the  "Press*  was  merged  in  the  *Courant,*  he  became, 
with  his  classmate  and  friend,  Senator  Joseph  R.  Hawley,  co-editor  and 
proprietor  of  a  newspaper  which  soon  became  one  of  the  foremost  jour- 
nals in  the  country. 

Mr.  Warner  was  indefatigable  in  whatever  he  undertook,  and  his  work 
on  the  "Courant*  was  both  enthusiastic  and  intelligent.  From  the  very 
beginning  he  gave  his  editorial  writing  the  utmost  care  and  thought,  and 
the  high  standard  of  literary  excellence  to  which  he  held  himself  became 
the  rule  of  his  journal. 

A  close  observer  and  keen  student  of  men,  full  of  interest  in  everything 
characteristic  of  life  in  manners,  habit  and  dress,  Mr.  Warner  was  pre- 
destined to  be  a  critic  of  life  as  well  as  of  books,  and,  therefore,  to  be  a 
great  traveler.  The  first  of  his  many  long  journeys  was  made  in  1868,  and 
his  reports  of  the  countries  he  visited  were  so  full  of  delicate  observation, 
humorous  comment  and  charming  description  that  they  attracted  wide 
attention.  He  became,  in  time,  one  of  the  most  delightful  and  popular 
writers  of  travel  in  our  literature. 

Mr.  Warner  was  also  a  lover  of  nature,  with  the  keenest  enjoyment  of 
out-of-door  life ;  and  it  was  these  tastes,  with  his  charming  humor,  which 
first  gave  him  reputation.  *My  Summer  In  a  Garden,*  which  was  publish- 
ed in  1870,  was  pervaded  by  his  delightful  personality.  It  had  the  charm 
of  personal  narration,  the  atmosphere  of  a  New  England  garden,  and  an 
easy  flow  of  witty  comment  and  reflection.  It  gave  its  author  a  wide 
popular  reputation  and  it  marked  the  beginning  of  a  literary  career 
singularly  successful  and  harmonious.  His  audience  secured  and  his  art 
thoroughly  mastered,  Mr.  Warner  became  a  prolific  writer,  and  to  the 
year  of  his  death  essays,  sketches  of  travel,  literary  papers,  biography, 
novels,  discussions  of  political,  social  and  educational  questions  came 
from  his  hand  in  long  and  fruitful  succession. 

It  was  predestined  that  he  should  be  the  biographer  of  Irving,  i'or  he 
was  in  the  direct  line  of  succession  from  the  author  of  *The  Sketch 
Book.*      He  had  the  same  catholicity  of  taste,  urbanity  of  manner  and 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER  C 

charming  combination  of  sentiment  and  humor.  But  he  lived  in  a 
larger  world  than  that  in  which  Irving  worked,  and  his  interests  were 
wider.  He  cared  more  for  public  affairs,  and  was  more  deeply  concerned 
with  public  interests.  He  was  a  devout  and  ardent  American,  but  the 
America  he  loved  was  not  the  country  to  which  many  Americans  devote 
themselves;  it  was  the  America  of  intellectual  and  spiritual  opportunity, 
of  the  open  door  to  self -development,  of  the  free,  brave,  simple,  genuine 
life  of  self-respecting  independence. 

Mr.  Warner  became  not  only  a  popular  writer,  but  a  high-minded  and 
loyal  representative  of  American  literature ;  standing  resolutely  and  con- 
spicuously for  its  great  importance  to  the  country,  for  its  ethical  respon- 
sibilities, and  for  the  solidarity  of  its  interests.  He  was  a  born  lover  of  the 
best,  and  a  bom  hater  of  the  mediocre,  the  vulgar,  and  the  cheap.  A 
strain  of  high  breeding  showed  itself  in  his  standards,  his  ideals,  his 
code  of  manners.  In  political,  artistic,  and  social  life  he  resolutely  pur- 
sued those  things  which  make  for  honor,  for  dignity,  and  for  richness  of 
life.  He  was  the  unrelenting  enemy  of  everything  which  lowers  the 
standards  of  life;  no  man  in  our  generation  has  more  quietly  but  more 
effectively  protested  against  that  which  is  sordid  and  demoralizing  in 
popular  standards  of  success  than  Mr.  Warner.  He  was  not  by  nature  a 
novelist,  but  his  observations  of  social  life  were  so  keen,  his  insight  into 
character  so  sure,  his  knowledge  of  life  so  broad,  that  when  he  took  up 
fiction  he  put  into  it  a  wisdom  of  experience,  a  delicacy  of  characteriza- 
tion, and  a  justness  of  judgment,  combined  with  his  delightful  style, 
which  gave  his  stories  great  attractiveness.  That  which  was  most  notice- 
able in  them,  however,  was  the  clear  perception  of  the  reflex  influence 
of  ethical  standards  on  manners.  *A  Little  Journey  in  the  World," 
*The  Golden  House,*  and  ''That  Fortune"  were  close  studies  of  the 
deterioration  in  character  and  manners  which  overtakes  those  who  sell 
"themselves  for  success,  and  who  are  corrupted  by  the  material  returns 
of  prosperity. 

For  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  during  one  of  the  critical 
periods  in  the  history  of  the  American  people,  Mr.  Warner  was  a  teacher 
of  ethics,  of  sound  taste,  of  genuine  patriotism  and  of  liberal  culture,  of 
exceptional  influence  and  importance.  He  was  deeply  interested  in  many 
movements  which  had  for  their  object  the  betterment  of  conditions  of 
life  and  the  advancement  of  the  spiritual  interests  of  the  country.  At 
the  time  of  his  death  he  was  President  of  the  American  Social  Science 
Association.     When  the   National   Institute   of  Arts   and   Letters  was 


d  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER 

organized,  including  in  its  membership  the  leading  American  writers, 
painters,  sculptors  and  composers,  he  became  its  first  President;  his 
position,  work  and  personal  qualities  pre-eminently  fitting  him  for  the 
place. 

He  undertook  the  laborious  work  of  editing  the  Library  of  the  World's 
Best  Literature  because  he  was  eager  to  put  into  accessible  form  the  best 
that  had  been  thought  and  written,  and  to  bring  within  reach  of  every 
American  home  the  inspiration,  the  resource  and  the  pleasure  which 
literature  in  its  finest  examples  offers  to  every  receptive  reader.  His 
interest  in  the  work  was  deep  and  enthusiastic ;  he  gave  time  and  strength 
without  measure  to  it,  and  it  was  his  steadfast  endeavor  to  secure  for  the 
Library  the  co-operation  of  the  foremost  students  and  critics  of  liter- 
ature. 

Although  he  had  been  for  more  than  a  year  in  failing  health,  Mr. 
Warner's  death  at  Hartford,  on  October  20th,  1900,  was  a  great  shock 
to  the  wide  circle  of  those  who  loved  and  honored  him.  There  were 
younger  men  in  all  parts  of  the  country  who  owed  much  to  his  generous 
recognition  and  encouragement;  there  are  innumerable  readers  to  whom 
he  had  given  stimulus,  impulse  and  pleasure;  and  there  were  many  more 
whom  he  had  served  without  their  knowledge ;  for  he  had  enriched  Amer- 
ican life  for  all  time  by  his  fine  intelligence,  his  large  and  generous  aims, 
his  high  standards  and  the  charm  of  his  spirit. 


^a^M^    ^    /^^U^XJ 


XI 


PREFACE 


Ihe  plan  of  this  Work  is  simple,  and  yet  it  is  novel.  In  its  dis- 
tinctive features  it  differs  from  any  compilation  that  has  yet 
been  made.  Its  main_  purpose  is  to  present  to  American 
households  a  mass  of  good  reading.  But  it  goes  much  beyond  this. 
For  in  selecting  this  reading  it  draws  upon  all  literatures  of  all  time 
and  of  every  race,  and  thus  becomes  a  conspectus  of  the  thought 
and  intellectual  evolution  of  man  from  the  beginning.  Another  and 
scarcely  less  important  purpose  is  the  interpretation  of  this  literature 
in  essays  by  scholars  and  authors  competent  to  speak  with  authority. 

The  title,  <<A  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature,*  is  strictly 
descriptive.  It  means  that  what  is  offered  to  the  reader  is  taken  from 
the  best  authors,  and  is  fairly  representative  of  the  best  literature 
and  of  all  literatures.  It  may  be  important  historically,  or  because  >» 
at  one  time  it  expressed  the  thought  and  feeling  of  a  nation,  or  • 
because  it  has  the  character  of  universality,  or  because  the  readers 
of  to-day  will  find  it  instructive,  entertaining,  or  amusing.  The 
Work  aims  to  suit  a  great  variety  of  tastes,  and  thus  to  commend 
itself  as  a  household  companion  for  any  mood  and  any  hour.  There 
is  no  intention  of  presenting  merely  a  mass  of  historical  material 
however  important  it  is  in  its  place,  which  is  commonly  of  the  sort 
that  people  recommend^thers  to  read  and  doJiot^read  themselves. 
It  is  not  a  library  of  reference  only,  but  a  library  to  be  read.  The 
selections  do  not  represent  the  partialities  and  prejudices  and  culti- 
vation of  any  one  person,  or  of  a  group  of  editors  even;  but,  under 
the  necessary  editorial  supervision,  the  sober  judgment  of  almost  as 
many  minds  as  have  assisted  in  the  preparation  of  these  volumes. 
By  this  method,  breadth  of  appreciation  has  been  sought. 

The  arrangement  is  not  chronological,  but  alphabetical,  under  the 
names  of  the  author?,  and,  in  some  ca\,es,  of  literatures  and  special 


subjects.  Thus,  in  each  volume  a  certain  variety  is  secured,  the 
heaviness  or  sameness  of  a  mass  of  antique,  classical,  or  mediceval 
material  is  avoided,  and  the  reader  obtains  a  sense  of  the  varieties 
and  contrasts  of  different  periods.  But  the  work  is  not  an  encyclo- 
psedia,  or  merely  a  dictionary  of  authors.  Comprehensive  information 
as  to  all  writers  of  importance  may  be  included  in  a  supplementary 
reference  volume;  but  the  attempt  to  quote  from  all  would  destroy 
the  Work  for  reading  purposes,  and  reduce  it  to  a  herbarium  of 
specimens. 

In  order  to  present  a  view  of  the  entire  literary  field,  and  to  make 
these  volumes  especially  useful  to  persons  who  have  not  access  to 
large  libraries,  as  well  as  to  treat  certain  literatures  or  subjects  when 
the  names  of  writers  are  unknown  or  would  have  no  significance  to 
the  reader,  it  has  been  found  necessary  to  make  groups  of  certain 
nationalities,  periods,  and  special  topics.  For  instance,  if  the  reader 
would  like  to  know  something  of  ancient  and  remote  literatures 
which  cannot  well  be  treated  under  the  alphabetical  list  of  authors, 
he  will  find  special  essays  by  competent  scholars  on  the  Accadian- 
Babylonian  literature,  on  the  Egyptian,  the  Hindu,  the  Chinese,  the 
Japanese,  the  Icelandic,  the  Celtic,  and  others,  followed  by  selections 
many  of  which  have  been  specially  translatpd  for  this  Work  In 
these  literatures  names  of  ascertained  authors  are  given  in  the  Index. 
The  intention  of  the,  essays  is  to  acquaint  the  reader  with  the  spirit, 
purpose,  and  tendency  of  these  writings,  in  order  that  he  may  have 
a  comparative  view  of  the  continuity  of  thought  and  the  value  of 
V  tradition  in  the  world.  Some  subjects,  like  the  Arthurian  Legends, 
the  Nibelungen  Lied,  the  Holy  Grail,  Provengal  Poetry,  the  Chansons 
and  Romances,  and  the  Gesta  Romanorum,  receive  a  similar  treat- 
ment. Single  poems  upon  which  the  authors'  title  to  fame  mainly 
rests,  familiar  and  dear  hymns,  and  occasional  and  modern  verse  of 
value,  are  also  grouped  together  under  an  appropriate  heading,  with 
reference  in  the  Index  whenever  the  poet  is  known. 

It  will  thus  be  evident  to  the  reader  that  the  Library  is  fairly 
comprehensive  and  representative,  and  that  it  has  an  educational 
value,  while  offering  constant  and  varied  entertainment.  This  com- 
prehensive  feature,    which   gives   the   Work   distinction,  is,    however. 


supplemented  by  another  of  scarcely  less  importance;  namely,  the 
critical  interpretive  and  biographical  comments  upon  the  authors  and 
their  writings  and  their  place  in  literature,  not  by  one  mind,  or  by  a 
small  editorial  staff,  but  by  a  great  number  of  writers  and  scholars, 
specialists  and  literary  critics,  who  are  able  to  speak  from  knowledge 
and  with  authority.  Thus  the  Library  becomes  in  a  way  representa« 
tive  of  the  scholarship  and  wide  |udgment-of-eur  own  time.  But  the 
essays  have  another  value.  They  give  information  for  the  guidance 
of  the  reader.  If  he  becomes  interested  in  any  selections  here  given, 
and  would  like  a  fuller  knowledge  of  the  author's  works,  he  can  turn 
to  the  essay  and  find  brief  observations  and  characterizations  which 
will  assist  him  in  making  his  choice  of  books  from  a  library. 

The  selections  are  made  for  household  and  general  reading;  in  the 
belief  that  the  best  literature  contains  enough  that  is  pure  and  ele- 
vating and  at  the  same  time  readable,  to  satisfy  any  taste  that  should 
be  encouraged.  Of  course  selection  implies  choice  and  exclusion, 
it  is  hoped  that  what  is  given  will  be  generally  approved;  yet  it 
may  well  happen  that  some  readers  will  miss  the  names  of  authors 
whom  they  desire  to  read.  But  this  Work,  like  every  other,  has  its 
necessary  limits;  and  in  a  general  compilation  the  classic  writings, 
and  those  productions  that  the  world  has  set  its  seal  on  as  among 
the  best,  must  predominate  over  contemporary  literature  that  is  still 
on  its  trial.  It  should  be  said,  however,  that  many  writers  of  pres- 
ent note  and  popularity  are  omitted  simply  for  lack  of  space.  The 
editors  are  compelled  to  keep  constantly  in  view  the  wider  field. 
The  general  purpose  is  to  give  only  literature;  and  where  authors 
are  cited  who  are  generally  known  as  philosophers,  theologians,  pub- 
licists, or  scientists,  it  is  because  they  have  distinct  literary  quality, 
or  because  their  influence  upon  literature  itself  has  been  so  profound 
that  the  progress  of  the  race  could  not  be  accounted  for  without 
them. 

These  volumes  contain  not  only  or  mainly  the  literature  of  the 
past,  but  they  aim  to  give,  within  the  limits  imposed  by  such  a 
view,  an  idea  of  contemporary  achievement  and  tendencies  in  all 
civilized  countries.  In  this  yiew,  of  the  modem  world  the  literary 
product  of  America  and  Great  Britain  occtipies  the  largest  space. 


XIV 

It  should  be  said  that  the  plan  of  this  "Work  could  not  have  been 
carried  out  without  the  assistance  of  specialists  in  many  departments 
of  learning,  and  of  writers  of  skill  and  insight,  both  in  this  country 
and  in  Europe.  This  assistance  has  been  most  cordially  given,  with 
a  full  recognition  of  the  value  of  the  enterprise  and  of  the  aid  that 
the  Library  may  give  in  encouraging  and  broadening  literary  tastes. 
Perhaps  no  better  service  could  be  rendered  the  American  public  at 
this  period  than  the  offer  of  an  opportunity  for  a  comprehensive 
study  of  the  older  and  the  greater  literatures  of  other  nations.  By 
this  comparison  it  can  gain  a  just  view  of  its  own  literature,  and  of 
its  possible  mission  in  the  world  of  letters. 


CJyjU. 


TDOOKS  are  not  absolutely  dead  things,  but  do  contain 
a  potency  of  life  in  them  to  be  as  active  as  that 
soul  was  whose  progeny  they  are ;  nay,  they  do  preserve 
as  in  a  vial  the  purest  efficacy  and  extraction  of  that 
living  intellect  that  bred  them.  I  knoT.v  they  are  as 
lively,  and  as  vigorously  productive,  as  those  fabulous 
dragons  teeth  ;  and  being  soivn  up  and  do^vn,  may  chance 
to  spring  up  armed  men.  And  yet  on  the  other  hand, 
unless  wariness  be  used,  as  good  almost  kill  a  man  as  kill 
a  good  book :  who  kills  a  man  kills  a  reasonable  creature, 
God's  image ;  but  he  who  destroys  a  good  book,  kills  rea- 
son itself,  kills  the  image  of  God,  as  it  were  in  the  eye. 
Many  a  man  lives  a  burden  to  the  earth;  but  a  good 
book  is  the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master-spirit,  embalmed 
and  treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond  life. 

John  Mil  ton. 


ftc^  of  QOofepne  .  tQc  to^ic^  fptftcto  of  tCft  Conqiwft  of  (^e  fyi^p 
<i?noc  of  j^cvufaC^m^^cDnajitipngOiMctfc  t^arae  an^  no68?  fa^* 
of  ilcmeemao?  »ii  t^  fame  nRoj?am«yano  nj  tfjc  contujce  uOiaoent 
XmO  aSfo  man^  mcwa^l^oue  Stictft*^  ^^  •  ~^  ano?  foflPci)  oo  ^<^ 
«i|  C^ie  fi>CC/0©  It)  t^o  iwrti^co  tQio  tpr*  ig? ,  itnb?  ^®  ^« 

VdCpont  cmc  <8ooefcc^  of  (^G)$necDit(|it«i^  %tl#l^  ftlbeiOt^ 

fe?^  Cof^o«/anO  ^tou^^t  ti|  (» i^tufaCi^ni  c^  %rp  ci^ 

^ol^fi)§^£bf^k«5ft«i)  mat)  anc>?  gouctrr 

1       >  Xti?^ma^l^c  p^pl»tDt5tlOctftortCC/£i;v«v 

l  ^SBao  ajpiopftca  fcttec  ftom  put  fozo?  /  Sin  tft« 

^^^"^^«^«^tM#€toe^Wfnfo  CatSe  of  mo 
<^mc<  (6^  ^m'Tmiff^^^^  ftywim^^tpce  of  t^oijcnC/and 

faC?m  t^c  B?iJ^  <iJtdffM6^K*»4$<^  ^»4(i0o?  tii  (u  »x  rfc/:  "^ 

otiO  Otc^ff^^t)  t^  d)noe  of  ^utrp«/2l  n^  0»Dc  Co  o:ccp" 

0  fxitaav6«  o  mocQ?  SBifc  mat)  named  Wooefcc  /(^p  i»^. 

&  O^Oe  do  ma^c  a^a^  tOc  c0tK6?e/atid  ^6^cd  (0^ 

otiD?  c&tifc!^  t?fQm  t^t  tOc  tpmiittt  4^of0zoe  of  (p^rfe  ttel 

douoand  Cefitco2«d^  ^cac0?ojfett5  ^ccec  ctiCcitd^  (zm 

fo>  eo  wpc^|)rc  (^cm,7t  tid  S0twe  fr  cnectiCtO  U)^  of 

fom  of  oaptap  tBQtc6e  ®ao  a  pt^oe  of  21  cufi?  t^c  c^ 

cfpm€(  /<am  it)  to  t^ie  conttx(  namcO  po&ft^nc  tBit^ 

6^t  of  jfsp^  i^at  oftc  t^c  fotioe  ^ecoucic>?  ®i^  ^» 

d^mm  <ii6e»  6p  foia  a  moc6?  fteotWtt  <C^  of 

30^(6 /fiBMii  Unfile  ^  dts^  ^ti  totoai^  taiwufik   ^^'  ^^?  «iflfu3cd? 


B 


OOA'S  ar 


a  / 
soul  was  7 
as   in     ' 

iiririj,- 

u.  CA^TQM. 

Rrdueed  iacsjmijeof  thfr.first,page,,(»f  the- o^ljr- jjopjr  exta^j,^, 

GOr^'""T^^"  ""(F  BOLOYNE,         ^       ,,,,. 


Here  v^fwynni-tVi  th^  hnie  Tntlmled  Eraclcs,  apd  also  Godefrey  of  Boloyne,  the 
nque^  of  iM  hiAf  l^iU'-W  JlrtfrtAfent-.i  ~ 

Printed  by  Laxton,  London,  14^:  ■■•'-'■'     '      ■■•       '''I^thfe  British  Museum. 

A  goo^  specimp"  '.•<.>  r,f  th^  pafTJestEnglipS  nnntifir'    ■'Gaif^ort'ii'lrrftt  primed 

book,  and  mte4   in   E  "The-  Game   and 

Play  o  ich  was  pri?  -4.'    The  blank 

space    on    this    page    was    for    the    iiiseitip>y/by 

hand  of   an  illuminated  initial   T. 


Jtpx  a^mctO  (0«  &?^e  3rtfi6iCfeJ^  €racQ:0,anCyaGro  of  <8oCm 
ftc^  of  oPoCbgne  /  tQc  tD^K^e  fpc^cto  of  t(jt  Conqiwft  of  e^c  fyy2f> 
^n(K  of  3i0cvu|aC?m/^cDnapn^n3  Omcrfc  ^accce  an^  no66^  fago?.^ 
^  ^cmce  maoe  ni  t^c  r<^"ie  nRogdmc/anO  n)  tOc  con^wee  uOiao?rtt 
^nO  a£fo  man^  mcma^lVoue  tt>cr6<'o  fxi^c5?  ano?  foflPci)  ae  ^S^iT 
*»)  C^io  f^oc/ae  ni  t§0|xirt^eot^io  tgmc  Outing? ,  JtnC)?  ^®  i^c 
%Cpant  ouc  <8oocfccp  of  (^fi)gnc  conqucro^  tioit^  t§c  |tfecrOt§« 

^^c  ff itr<  cOttpi<a  ^tcoecfO  00®  (BwcCce  conquer^  c^crf  on^? 
)?itu(b  p4mo< 

^oe  Q  gooC>?  agftd)  mat)  an<i2  gouctnoinc  of 

t^empptc  of  O?omc/C)3ut  tn  ^le  t^mc  ITTacOo'/ 

I  met  OaO  &»)tfeQic^c  ^ae  incffagcr  of  t^c  CcuiC 

I  21  tiJ>?  ma v3e  t^c  P?pC2  to  tJnoetf ton  0?  /  tO^t  0^ 

C  tBao  a  pzopQece  fence  fcoin  out  G):oc  /  S)n  tOe 

t^mc  of  <tcacO?e  ®ae  t^c  fnPo  Ca^c  of  nio'/ 

Kff>met  fotiocij  and  fpia?)  a6zooe  nj  mong  partgce  of  t^oigcnt/and 

namcEg  nj  7tt3a6j?c  /  «i  fo  moc^c  tQot  tOc  p:gnceo  of  t^c  wnoee  gee 

tooC?)  not  gguc  fait^  to  ^le  fcctc  t^at  (je  pjcc^iD  anO  tau^^t  ^^ic6e 

te  curfcO  anO  eugP/But  Or  conftcagneo  t^em  6p  fbice  and  6g  f ft5ciD 

CD  (t  aUc  tOar  ful^cte  to  o6e2>c  6)  Qio  oommanccmcne/anO  to  6g0r^ 

M«  ti)  f)io  Ca®C/\J)eai)  (Bmcifeo  6aO  oonquctO  cpccfc  an5  fPa^t)  cof'/ 

^oc  to^ic^e  ^ao  o  pwffaunt  6pngc  fe  6:oug^t  a^agi)  eo  ^Ocw '/ 

faO?m  t^c  B?«^  CwffC/tfeOic^  t^cp  6aO  CoOoe  n)  Co  petfcTtno  a6bC« 

on?>  0®cffg«>4ii  t^c  G>noe  of  ^ucrgC/Tl  nD  dicjc  ?x>  oiccpnc  an^  c^fe 

0  ixitaav^c  o  moc6e  tBifc  mai)  named  WoDeftc  /QPp  ^^o  counfciC 

i5?  OpOc  do  maftc  oga^i)  tOc  c^ucfee/and  6a6gUcd  t()c  ^Cp  pPaoeo  / 

an^  cCf nfci)?  tOcm  t^at  tOc  tpcaiint  Cof^oe  of  (pcrfc  Ocio?  fmctoti 

doui)  and  ccftco^d^  <8cacO?e  feto?  gceec  cnCcntc  ^  maop  ^rxti  ooftco 

fo>  (D  wpc^rc  t^em/Ttnd  ®^iG?6  6?  cnCcnded  tlXC  afouOf /^max  t& 

fom  of  oaptop  ^^ic^e  ^ao  a  p:2nce  of  2l«:ii6?  t^c  t^itdc  af6?t  ma^ 

Cornet /dm  n)  to  t^ie  oonttcc  named  paGjffgnc  tBit^  fo  grptt  nom  ^ 

6ie  of  f»pB?  t^at  oUc  t§c  fonCtt  ^ecouctd?  ®i^  t^cm ,  and?  ^d? 

(Qcnnc  CoBcij  6p  fo:ce  a  mocf;?  ficongc  ^^cc  of  t^at  tbnoe  nomedj 

3a^»/ff  com  tQcno  ^  dte^  ^gm  tot^c^  damafi^e  /  ond?  affic^ct^ 


ir 


ABELARD 

(1079— 1 142) 

BY  THOMAS   DAVIDSON 

[lERRE,  the  eldest  son  of  Berenger  and  Lucie  (Abelard?)  wai 
bom  at  Palais,  near  Nantes  and  the  frontier  of  Brittany, 
in  1079,  His  knightly  father,  having  in  his  youth  been  a 
student,  was  anxious  to  give  his  family,  and  especially  his  favorite 
Pierre,  a  liberal  education.  The  boy  was  accordingly  sent  to  school, 
tinder  a  teacher  who  at  that  time  was  making  his  mark  in  the 
world, —  Roscellin,  the  reputed  father  of  Nominalism,  As  the  whole 
import  and  tragedy  of  his  life  may  be  traced  back  to  this  man's  teach- 
ing, and  the  relation  which  it  bore  to  the 
thought  of  the  time,  we  must  pause  to  con- 
sider these. 

In  the  early  centuries  of  our  era,  the  two 
fundamental  articles  of  the  Gentile-Christ- 
ian creed,  the  Trinity  and  the  Incarnation, 
neither  of  them  Jewish,  were  formulated 
in  terms  of  Platonic  philosophy,  of  which 
the  distinctive  tenet  is,  that  the  real  and 
eternal  is  the  universal,  not  the  individ- 
ual. On  this  assumption  it  was  possible 
to  say  that  the  same  real  substance  could 
exist  in  three,  or  indeed  in  any  number  of 
persons.  In  the  case  of  Grod,  the  dogma- 
builders  were  careful  to  say,  essence  is  one  with  existence,  and  there- 
fore in  Him  the  individuals  are  as  real  as  the  universal.  Platonism, 
having  lent  the  formula  for  the  Trinity,  became  the  favorite  philoso- 
phy of  many  of  the  Church  fathers,  and  so  introduced  into  Christian 
thought  and  life  the  Platonic  dualism,  that  sharp  distinction  between 
the  temporal  and  the  eternal  which  belittles  the  practical  life  and 
glorifies  the  contemplative. 

This  distinction,  as  aggravated  by  Neo-Platonism,  further  affected 
Eastern  Christianity  in  the  sixth  century,  and  Western  Christianity 
in  the  ninth,  chiefly  through  the  writings  of  (the  pseudo-)  Dionysius 
Areopagita.  and  gave  rise  to  Christian  mysticism.  It  was  then  erected 
into  a  rule  of  conduct  through  the  efforts  of  Pope  Gregory  VII.,  who 
strove  to  subject  practical  and  civil  life  entirely  to  the  control  of 
1—2 


Abelard 


iR  ABELARD 

ecclesiastics  and  monks,  standing  for  contemplative,  supernatural  life. 
The  latter  included  all  purely  mental  work,  which  more  and  more 
tended  to  concentrate  itself  upon  religion  and  confine  itself  to  the 
clergy.  In  this  way  it  came  to  be  considered  an  utter  disgrace  for 
any  man  engaged  in  mental  work  to  take  any  part  in  the  institutions 
of  civil  life,  and  particularly  to  marry.  He  might  indeed  enter  into 
illicit  relations,  and  rear  a  family  of  << nephews'^  and  " nieces, ^^  with- 
out losing  prestige;  but  to  marry  was  to  commit  suicide.  Such  was 
the  condition  of  things  in  the  days  of  Abelard. 

But  while  Platonism,  with  its  real  universals,  was  celebrating  its 
ascetic,  unearthly  triumphs  in  the  West,  Aristotelianism,  which  main- 
tains that  the  individual  is  the  real,  was  making  its  way  in  the  East. 
Banished  as  heresy  beyond  the  limits  of  the  Catholic  Church,  in  the 
fifth  and  sixth  centuries,  in  the  persons  of  Nestorius  and  others,  it 
took  refuge  in  Syria,  where  it  flourished  for  many  years  in  the  schools 
of  Edessa  and  Nisibis,  the  foremost  of  the  time.  From  these  it  found 
its  way  among  the  Arabs,  and  even  to  the  illiterate  Muhammad,  who 
gave  it  (i)  theoretic  theological  expression  in  the  cxii.  surah  of  the 
Koran :  *^  He  is  One  God,  God  the  Eternal ;  He  neither  begets  nor  is 
begotten;  and  to  Him  there  is  no  peer,^>  in  which  both  the  funda- 
mental dogmas  of  Christianity  are  denied,  and  that  too  on  the  ground 
of  revelation;  (2)  practical  expression,  by  forbidding  asceticism  and 
monasticism,  and  encouraging  a  robust,  though  somewhat  coarse, 
natural  life.    Islam,  indeed,  was  an  attempt  to  rehabilitate  the  human. 

In  Abelard's  time  Arab  Aristotelianism,  with  its  consequences  for 
thought  and  life,  was  filtering  into  Europe  and  forcing  Christian 
thinkers  to  defend  the  bases  of  their  faith.  Since  these,  so  far  as 
defensible  at  all,  depended  upon  the  Platonic  doctrine  of  univer- 
sals, and  this  could  be  maintained  only  by  dialectic,  this  science  be- 
came extremely  popular, — indeed,  almost  the  rage.  Little  of  the  real 
Aristotle  was  at  that  time  known  in  the  West;  but  in  Porphyry's 
Introduction  to  Aristotle's  Logic  was  a  famous  passage,  in  which  all 
the  difficulties  with  regard  to  universals  were  stated  without  being 
solved.  Over  this  the  intellectual  battles  of  the  first  age  of  Scholasti- 
cism were  fought.  The  more  clerical  and  mystic  thinkers,  like 
Anselm  and  Bernard,  of  course  sided  with  Plato;  but  the  more 
worldly,  robust  thinkers  inclined  to  accept  Aristotle,  not  seeing  that 
his  doctrine  is  fatal  to  the  Trinity. 

Prominent  among  these  was  a  Breton,  Roscellin,  the  early  in- 
structor of  Abelard.  From  him  the  brilliant,  fearless  boy  learnt  two 
terrible  lessons:  (i)  that  universals,  instead  of  being  real  substances, 
external  and  superior  to  individual  things,  are  mere  names  (hence 
Nominalism)  for  common  qualities  of  things  as  recognized  by  the 
human  mind;  (2)  that  since   universals   are  the  tools    and   criteria    of 


ABfiLARD  xg 

thought,  the  •human  mind,  in  which  alone  these  exist,  is  the  judge 
of  all  truth, — a  lesson  which  leads  directly  to  pure  rationalism,  and 
indeed  to  the  rehabilitation  of  the  human  as  against  the  superhuman. 
No  wonder  that  Roscellin  came  into  conflict  with  the  church  author- 
ities, and  had  to  flee  to  England.  Abelard  afterwards  modified  his 
nominalism  and  behaved  somewhat  unhandsomely  to  him,  but  never 
escaped  from  the  influence  of  his  teaching.  Abelard  was  a  rationalist 
and  an  asserter  of  the  human.  Accordingly,  when,  definitely  adopting 
the  vocation  of  the  scholar,  he  went  to  Paris  to  study  dialectic  under 
'the  then  famous  William  of  Champeaux,  a  declared  Platonist,  or  real- 
ist as  the  designation  then  was,  he  gave  his  teacher  infinite  trouble 
by  his  subtle  objections,  and  not  seldom  got  the  better  of  him. 

These  victories,  which  made  him  disliked  both  by  his  teacher  and 
his  fellow-pupils,  went  to  increase  his  natural  self-appreciation,  and 
induced  him,  though  a  mere  youth,  to  leave  William  and  set  up  a 
rival  school  at  Melun.  Here  his  splendid  personality,  his  confidence, 
and  his  brilliant  powers  of  reasoning  and  statement,  drew  to  him  a 
large  number  of  admiring  pupils,  so  that  he  was  soon  induced  to  move 
his  school  to  Corbeil,  near  Paris,  where  his  impetuous  dialectic  found 
a  wider  field.  Here  he  worked  so  hard  that  he  fell  ill,  and  was 
compelled  to  return  home  to  his  family.  With  them  he  remained  for 
several  years,  devoting  himself  to  study,  —  not  only  of  dialectic,  but 
plainly  also  of  theology.  Returning  to  Paris,  he  went  to  study  rhet- 
oric under  his  old  enemy,  William  of  Champeaux,  who  had  mean- 
while, to  increase  his  prestige,  taken  holy  orders,  and  had  been  made 
bishop  of  Chalons.  The  old  feud  was  renewed,  and  Abelard,  being 
now  better  armed  than  before,  compelled  his  master  openly  to  with- 
draw from  his  extreme  realistic  position  with  regard  to  universals, 
and  assume  one  more  nearly  approaching  that  of  Aristotle. 

This  victory  greatly  diminished  the  fame  of  William,  and  in- 
creased that  of  Abelard;  so  that  when  the  former  left  his  chair  and 
appointed  a  successor,  the  latter  gave  way  to  Abelard  and  became 
his  pupil  (1113).  This  was  too  much  for  William,  who  removed  his 
successor,  and  so  forced  Abelard  to  retire  again  to  Melun.  Here  he 
remained  but  a  short  time;  for,  William  having  on  account  of  unpop- 
ularity removed  his  school  from  Paris  Abelard  returned  thither  and 
opened  a  school  outside  the  city,  on  Mont  Ste.  Gepevieve.  William, 
hearing  this,  returned  to  Paris  and  tried  to  put  him  down,  but  in 
vain.     Abelard  was  completely  victorious. 

After  a  time  he  returned  once  more  to  Palais,  to  see  his  mother, 
who  was  about  to  enter  the  cloister,  as  his  father  had  done  some 
time  before.  When  this  visit  was  over,  instead  of  retvuning  to  Paris, 
to  lecture  on  dialectic,  he  went  to  Laon  to  study  theology  under  the 
then  famous  Anselm,     Here,  convinced  of  the  showy  superfigiality  of 


20  ABELARD 

Anselm,  he  once  more  got  into  difficulty,  by  undertaking  to  expound 
a  chapter  of  Ezekiel  without  having  studied  it  under  any  teacher. 
Though  at  first  derided  by  his  fellow-students,  he  succeeded  so  well 
as  to  draw  a  crowd  of  them  to  hear  him,  and  so  excited  the  envy 
of  Anselm  that  the  latter  forbade  him  to  teach  in  Laon.  Abelard 
accordingly  returned  once  more  to  Paris,  convinced  that  he  was 
fit  to  shine  as  a  lecturer,  not  only  on  dialectic,  but  also  on  theology. 
And  his  audiences  thought  so  also;  for  his  lectures  on  Ezekiel  were 
very  popular  and  drew  crowds.  He  was  now  at  the  height  of  his 
fame  (1118). 

The  result  of  all  these  triumphs  over  dialecticians  and  theo- 
logians was  unfortunate.  He  not  only  felt  himself  the  intellectual 
superior  of  any  living  man,  which  he  probably  was,  but  he  also 
began  to  look  down  upon  the  current  thought  of  his  time  as  obsolete 
and  unworthy,  and  to  set  at  naught  even  current  opinion.  He  was 
now  on  the  verge  of  forty,  and  his  life  had  so  far  been  one  of  spot- 
less purity;  but  now,  under  the  influence  of  vanity,  this  too  gave 
way.  Having  no  further  conquests  to  make  in  the  intellectual  world, 
he  began  to  consider  whether,  with  his  great  personal  beauty,  manly 
bearing,  and  confident  address,  he  might  not  make  conquests  in  thje 
social  world,  and  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  no  woman  could  reject 
him  or  refuse  him  her  favor. 

It  was  just  at  this  unfortunate  juncture  that  he  went  to  live 
in  the  house  of  a  certain  Canon  Fulbert,  of  the  cathedral,  whose 
brilliant  niece,  Heloise,  had  at  the  age  of  seventeen  just  returned 
from  a  convent  at  Argenteuil,  where  she  had  been  at  school.  Ful- 
bert, who  was  proud  of  her  talents,  and  glad  to  get  the  price  of 
Abelard's  board,  took  the  latter  into  his  house  and  intrusted  him 
with  the  full  care  of  Heloise's  further  education,  telling  him  even 
to  chastise  her  if  necessary.  So  complete  was  Fulbert's  confidence 
in  Abelard,  that  no  restriction  was  put  upon  the  companionship  of 
teacher  and  pupil.  The  result  was  that  Abelard  and  Heloise,  both 
equally  inexperienced  in  matters  of  the  heart,  soon  conceived  for  each 
other  an  overwhelming  passion,  comparable  only  to  that  of  Faust  and 
Gretchen.  And  the  result  in  both  cases  was  the  same.  Abelard,  as  a 
great  scholar,  could  not  think  of  marriage;  and  if  he  had,  Heloise 
would  have  refused  to  ruin  his  career  by  marrying  him.  So  it  came 
to  pass  that  when  their  secret,  never  very  carefully  guarded,  became 
no  longer  a  secret,  and  threatened  the  safety  of  Heloise,  the  only 
thing  that  her  lover  could  do  for  her  was  to  carry  her  off  secretly  to 
his  home  in  Palais,  and  place  her  in  charge  of  his  sister.  Here  she 
remained  until  the  birth  of  her  child,  which  received  the  name  of 
Astralabius,  Abelard  meanwhile  continuing  his  work  in  Paris.  And 
here  all  the  nobility  of  his  character  comes  out.     Though  Fulbert  and 


ABfiLARD  21 

his  friends  were,  naturally  enough,  furious  at  what  they  regarded  as 
his  utter  treachery,  and  though  they  tried  to  murder  him,  he  pro- 
tected himself,  and  as  soon  as  Heloise  was  fit  to  travel,  hastened  to 
Palais,  and  insisted  upon  removing  her  to  Paris  and  making  her  his 
lawful  wife.  HeloTse  used  every  argument  which  her  fertile  mind 
could  suggest  to  dissuade  him  from  a  step  which  she  felt  must  be  his 
ruin,  at  the  same  time  expressing  her  entire  willingness  to  stand  in 
a  less  honored  relation  to  him.  But  Abelard  was  inexorable.  Taking 
her  to  Paris,  he  procured  the  consent  of  her  relatives  to  the  marriage 
(which  they  agreed  to  keep  secret),  and  even  their  presence  at  the 
ceremony,  which  was  performed  one  morning  before  daybreak,  after 
the  two  had  spent  a  night  of  vigils  in  the  church. 

After  the  marriage,  they  parted  and  for  some  time  saw  little  of 
each  other.  When  Heloise's  relatives  divulged  the  secret,  and  she 
was  taxed  with  being  Abelard's  lawful  wife,  she  *^  anathematized  and 
swore  that  it  was  absolutely  false."  As  the  facts  were  too  patent, 
however,  Abelard  removed  her  from  Paris,  and  placed  her  in  the 
convent  at  Argenteuil,  where  she  had  been  educated.  Here  she 
assumed  the  garb  of  a  novice.  Her  relatives,  thinking  that  he  must 
have  done  this  in  order  to  rid  himself  of  her,  furiously  vowed  ven- 
geance, which  they  took  in  the  meanest  and  most  brutal  form  of 
personal  violence.  It  was  not  a  time  of  fine  sensibilities,  justice,  or 
mercy  ;  but  even  the  public  of  those  days  was  horrified,  and  gave 
expression  to  its  horror.  Abelard,  overwhelmed  with  shame,  despair, 
and  remorse,  could  now  think  of  nothing  better  than  to  abandon  the 
world.  Without  any  vocation,  as  he  well  knew,  he  assumed  the 
monkish  habit  and  retired  to  the  monastery  of  St.  Denis,  while 
Heloise,  by  his  order,  took  the  veil  at  Argenteuil.  Her  devotion  and 
heroism  on  this  occasion  Abelard  has  described  in  touching  terms. 
Thus  supernaturalism  had  done  its  worst  for  these  two  strong, 
impetuous  human  souls. 

If  Abelard  had  entered  the  cloister  in  the  hope  of  finding  peace, 
he  soon  discovered  his  mistake.  The  dissolute  life  of  the  monks 
utterly  disgusted  him,  while  the  clergy  stormed  him  with  petitions  to 
continue  his  lectures.  Yielding  to  these,  he  was  soon  again  sur- 
rounded by  crowds  of  students  —  so  great  that  the  monks  at  St.  Denis 
were  glad  to  get  rid  of  him.  He  accordingly  retired  to  a  lonely  cell, 
to  which  he  was  followed  by  more  admirers  than  could  find  shelter 
or  food.  As  the  schools  of  Paris  were  thereby  emptied,  his  rivals  did 
everything  in  their  power  to  put  a  stop  to  his  teaching,  declaring 
that  as  a  monk  he  ought  not  to  teach  profane  science,  nor  as  a  lay- 
man in  theology  sacred  science.  In  order  to  legitimatize  his  claim  to 
teach  the  latter,  he  now  wrote  a  theological  treatise,  regarding  which 
he  savs : — 


22 


ABELARD 


<<It  so  happened  that  I  first  endeavored  to  illuminate  the  basis  of  our 
faith  by  similitudes  drawn  from  human  reason,  and  to  compose  for  our  stu- 
dents a  treatise  on  <The  Divine  Unity  and  Trinity,>  because  they  kept  asking 
for  human  and  philosophic  reasons,  and  demanding  rather  what  could  be 
understood  than  what  could  be  said,  declaring  that  the  mere  utterance  of 
words  was  useless  unless  followed  by  understanding;  that  nothing  could  be 
believed  that  was  not  first  understood,  and  that  it  was  ridiculous  for  any  one 
to  preach  what  neither  he  nor  those  he  taught  could  comprehend,  God  him- 
self calling  such  people  blind  leaders  of  the  blind. » 

Here  we  have  Abelard's  central  position,  exactly  the  opposite  to 
that  of  his  realist  contemporary,  Anselm  of  Canterbury,  whose  prin- 
ciple was  <<  Credo  ut  intelligam'^  (I  believe,  that  I  may  understand). 
We  must  not  suppose,  however,  that  Abelard,  with  his  rationalism, 
dreamed  of  undermining  Christian  dogma.  Very  far  from  it!  He 
believed  it  to  be  rational,  and  thought  he  could  prove  it  so.  No  won- 
der that  the  book  gave  offense,  in  an  age  when  faith  and  ecstasy 
were  placed  above  reason.  Indeed,  his  rivals  could  have  wished  for 
nothing  better  than  this  book,  which  gave  them  a  weapon  to  use 
against  him.  Led  on  by  two  old  enemies,  Alberich  and  Lotulf,  they 
caused  an  ecclesiastical  council  to  be  called  at  Soissons,  to  pass  judg- 
ment upon  the  book  (1121).  This  judgment  was  a  foregone  conclusion, 
the  trial  being  the  merest  farce,  in  which  the  pursuers  were  the  judges, 
the  Papal  legate  allowing  his  better  reason  to  be  overruled  by  their 
passion.  Abelard  was  condemned  to  burn  his  book  in  public,  and  to 
read  the  Athanasian  Creed  as  his  confession  of  faith  (which  he  did 
in  tears),  and  then  to  be  confined  permanently  in  the  monastery  of 
St.  Medard  as  a  dangerous  heretic. 

His  enemies  seemed  to  have  triumphed  and  to  have  silenced  him 
forever.  Soon  after,  however,  the  Papal  legate,  ashamed  of  the  part 
he  had  taken  in  the  transaction,  restored  him  to  liberty  and  allowed 
him  to  return  to  his  own  monastery  at  St.  Denis.  Here  once  more 
his  rationalistic,  critical  spirit  brought  him  into  trouble  with  the  big- 
oted, licentious  monks.  Having  maintained,  on  the  authority  of  Beda, 
that  Dionysius,  the  patron  saint  of  the  monastery,  was  bishop  of  Cor- 
inth and  not  of  Athens,  he  raised  such  a  storm  that  he  was  forced 
to  flee,  and  took  refuge  on  a  neighboring  estate,  whose  proprietor, 
Count  Thibauld,  was  friendly  to  him.  Here  he  was  cordially  received 
by  the  monks  of  Troyes,  and  allowed  to  occupy  a  retreat  belonging 
to  them. 

After  some  time,  and  with  great  difficulty,  he  obtained  leave  from 
the  abbot  of  St.  Denis  to  live  where  he  chose,  on  condition  of  not 
joining  any  other  order.  Being  now  practically  a  free  man,  he 
retired  to  a  lonely  spot  near  Nogent-sur-Seine,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Ardusson.     There,  having  received  a  erift  of  a  piece  of  land,  he  estab- 


ABfiLARD 


23 


lished  himself  along  with  a  friendly  cleric,  building  a  small  oratory 
of  clay  and  reeds  to  the  Holy  Trinity.  No  sooner,  however,  was 
his  place  of  retreat  known  than  he  was  followed  into  the  wilderness 
by  hosts  of  students  of  all  ranks,  who  lived  in  tents,  slept  on  the 
ground,  and  underwent  every  kind  of  hardship,  in  order  to  listen  to 
him  (1123).  These  supplied  his  wants,  and  built  a  chapel,  which  he 
dedicated  to  the  ^*  Paraclete,*^ — a  name  at  which  his  enemies,  furious 
over  his  success,  were  greatly  scandalized,  but  which  ever  after 
designated  the  whole  establishment. 

So  incessant  and  unrelenting  were  the  persecutions  he  suffered 
from  those  enemies,  and  so  deep  his  indignation  at  their  baseness, 
that  for  some  time  he  seriously  thought  of  escaping  beyond  the 
bounds  of  Christendom,  and  seeking  refuge  among  the  Muslim.  But 
just  then  (1125)  he  was  offered  an  important  position,  the  abbotship 
of  the  monastery  of  St.  Gildas-de-Rhuys,  in  Lower  Brittany,  on  the 
lonely,  inhospitable  shore  of  the  Atlantic.  Eager  for  rest  and  a  posi- 
tion promising  influence,  Abelard  accepted  the  offer  and  left  the  Par- 
aclete, not  knowing  what  he  was  doing. 

His  position  at  St.  Gildas  was  little  less  than  slow  martyrdom. 
The  country'  was  wild,  the  inhabitants  were  half  barbarous,  speaking 
a  language  unintelligible  to  him ;  the  monks  were  violent,  unruly,  and 
dissolute,  openly  living  with  concubines;  the  lands  of  the  monastery 
were  subjected  to  intolerable  burdens  by  the  neighboring  lord,  leav- 
ing the  monks  in  poverty  and  discontent.  Instead  of  finding  a  home 
of  God-fearing  men,  eager  for  enlightenment,  he  found  a  nest  of  greed 
and  corruption.  His  attempts  to  introduce  discipline,  or  even  decency, 
among  his  ^^sons,'*  only  stirred  up  rebellion  and  placed  his  life  in  dan- 
ger. Many  times  he  was  menaced  with  the  sword,  many  times  with 
poison.  In  spite  of  all  that,  he  clung  to  his  office,  and  labored  to  do 
his  duty.  Meanwhile  the  jealous  abbot  of  St.  Denis  succeeded  in 
establishing  a  claim  to  the  lands  of  the  convent  at  Argenteuil, — of 
which  Heloise,  long  since  famous  not  only  for  learning  but  also  for 
saintliness,  was  now  the  head, — and  she  and  her  nuns  were  violently 
evicted  and  cast  on  the  world.  Hearing  of  this  with  indignation, 
Abelard  at  once  offered  the  homeless  sisters  the  deserted  Paraclete 
and  all  its  belongings.  The  offer  was  thankfully  accepted,  and  Helo- 
ise with  her  family  removed  there  to  spend  the  remainder  of  her  life. 
It  does  not  appear  that  Abelard  and  Heloise  ever  saw  each  other  at 
this  time,  although  he  used  every  means  in  his  power  to  provide  for 
her  safety  and  comfort.  This  was  in  11 29.  Two  years  later  the  Para- 
clete was  confirmed  to  Heloise  by  a  Papal  bull.  It  remained  a  con- 
vent, and  a  famous  one,  for  over  six  hundred  years. 

After  this  Abelard  paid  several  visits  to  the  convent,  which  he 
justly  regarded   as  his   foundation,  in   order   to   arrange  a  rule  of  life 


24  ABfiLARD 

for  its  inmates,  and  to  encourage  them  in  their  vocation.  Although 
on  these  occasions  he  saw  nothing  of  HeloTse,  he  did  not  escape  the 
malignant  suspicions  of  the  world,  nor  of  his  own  flock,  which  now 
became  more  unruly  than  ever, — so  much  so  that  he  was  compelled 
to  live  outside  the  monastery.  Excommunication  was  tried  in  vain, 
and  even  the  efforts  of  a  Papal  legate  failed  to  restore  order.  For 
Abelard  there  was  nothing  but  «fear  within  and  conflict  without.  >^ 
It  was  at  this  time,  about  1132,  that  he  wrote  his  famous  <Historia 
Calamitatum,'  from  which  most  of  the  above  account  of  his  life  has 
been  taken.  In  11 34,  after  nine  years  of  painful  struggle,  he  defi- 
nitely left  St.  Gildas,  without,  however,  resigning  the  abbotship.  For 
the  next  two  years  he  seems  to  have  led  a  retired  life,  revising  his 
old  works  and  composing  new  ones. 

Meanwhile,  by  some  chance,  his  ^  History  of  Calamities '  fell  into 
the  hands  of  Heloise  at  the  Paraclete,  was  devoured  with  breathless 
interest,  and  rekindled  the  flame  that  seemed  to  have  smoldered  in 
her  bosom  for  thirteen  long  years.  Overcome  with  compassion  for 
her  husband,  for  such  he  really  was,  she  at  once  wrote  to  him  a  let- 
ter which  reveals  the  first  healthy  human  heart-beat  that  had  found 
expression  in  Christendom  for  a  thousand  years.  Thus  began  a  cor- 
respondence which,  for  genuine  tragic  pathos  and  human  interest, 
has  no  equal  in  the  world's  literature.  In  Abelard,  the  scholarly 
monk  has  completely  replaced  the  man;  in  Heloise,  the  saintly  nun 
is  but  a  veil  assumed  in  loving  obedience  to  him,  to  conceal  the 
deep-hearted,  faithful,  devoted  flesh-and-blood  woman.  And  such  a 
woman!  It  may  well  be  doubted  if,  for  all  that  constitutes  genuine 
womanhood,  she  ever  had  an  equal.  If  there  is  salvation  in  love, 
Heloise  is  in  the  heaven  of  heavens.  She  does  not  try  to  express  her 
love  in  poems,  as  Mrs.  Browning  did;  but  her  simple,  straightforward 
expression  of  a  love  that  would  share  Francesca's  fate  with  her  lover, 
rather  than  go  to  heaven  without  him,  yields,  and  has  yielded, 
matter  for  a  hundred  poems.  She  looks  forward  to  no  salvation;  for 
her  chief  love  is  for  him.  Domino  specialiter,  sua  singular  iter:  **As  a 
member  of  the  species  woman  I  am  the  Lord's,  as  Heloise  I  am 
yours '^ — nominalism  with  a  vengeance! 

But  to  return  to  Abelard.  Permanent  quiet  in  obscurity  was 
plainly  impossible  for  him,  and  so  in  11 36  we  find  him  back  at  Ste. 
Genevieve,  lecturing  to  crowds  of  enthusiastic  students.  He  probably 
thought  that  during  the  long  years  of  his  exile,  the  envy  and  hatred 
of  his  enemies  had  died  out;  but  he  soon  discovered  that  he  was 
greatly  mistaken.  He  was  too  marked  a  character,  and  the  tendency 
of  his  thought  too  dangerous,  for  that.  Besides,  he  emptied  the 
schools  of  his  rivals,  and  adopted  no  conciliatory  tone  toward  them. 
The   natural  resuJt   followed.     In   the   year  1140,  his  enemies,   headed 


ABtLARD'S  VISIT  TO  HfeLOiSE 


abelard  25 

by  St.  Bernard,  who  had  long  regarded  him  with  suspicion,  raised  a 
cry  of  heresy  against  him,  as  subjecting  everything  to  reason.  Ber- 
nard, who  was  nothing  if  not  a  fanatic,  and  who  managed  to  give 
vent  to  all  his  passions  by  placing  them  in  the  service  of  his  God,  at 
once  denounced  him  to  the  Pope,  to  cardinals,  and  to  bishops,  in 
passionate  letters,  full  of  rhetoric,  demanding  his  condemnation  as  a 
perverter  of  the  bases  of  the  faith. 

At  that  time  a  great  ecclesiastical  council  was  about  to  assem- 
ble at  Sens;  and  iVbelard,  feeling  certain  that  his  writings  contained 
nothing  which  he  could  not  show  to  be  strictly  orthodox,  demanded 
that  he  should  be  allowed  to  explain  and  dialectically  defend  his 
position,  in  open  dispute,  before  it.  But  this  was  above  all  things 
what  his  enemies  dreaded.  They  felt  that  nothing  was  safe  before 
his  brilliant  dialectic.  Bernard  even  refused  to  enter  the  lists  with 
him;  and  preferred  to  draw  up  a  list  of  his  heresies,  in  the  form  of 
sentences  sundered  from  their  context  in  his  works, — some  of  them, 
indeed,  from  works  which  he  never  wrote, — and  to  call  upon  the  coun- 
cil to  condemn  them.  (These  theses  may  be  found  in  Denzinger's 
*  Enchiridion  Symbolorum  et  Definitionum,  *  pp.  109  seq.)  Abelard, 
clearly  understanding  the  scheme,  feeling  its  unfairness,  and  knowing 
the  effect  of  Bernard's  lachrymose  pulpit  rhetoric  upon  sympathetic 
ecclesiastics  who  believed  in  his  power  to  work  miracles,  appeared 
before  the  council,  only  to  appeal  from  its  authority  to  Rome.  The 
council,  though  somewhat  disconcerted  by  this,  proceeded  to  con- 
demn the  disputed  theses,  and  sent  a  notice  of  its  action  to  the  Pope. 
Fearing  that  Abelard,  who  had  friends  in  Rome,  might  proceed 
thither  and  obtain  a  reversal  of  the  verdict,  Bernard  set  every  agency 
at  work  to  obtain  a  confirmation  of  it  before  his  victim  could  reach 
the  Eternal  City.     And  he  succeeded. 

The  result  was  for  a  time  kept  secret  from  Abelard,  who,  now 
over  sixty  years  old,  set  out  on  his  painful  journey.  Stopping  on  his 
way  at  the  famous,  hospitable  Abbey  of  Cluny,  he  was  most  kindly 
entertained  by  its  noble  abbot,  who  well  deserved  the  name  of  Peter 
the  Venerable.  Here,  apparently,  he  learned  that  he  had  been  con- 
demned and  excommunicated;  for  he  went  no  further.  Peter  offered 
the  weary  man  an  asylum  in  his  house,  which  was  gladly  accepted; 
and  Abelard,  at  last  convinced  of  the  vanity  of  all  worldly  ambition, 
settled  down  to  a  life  of  humiliation,  meditation,  study,  and  prayer. 
Soon  afterward  Bernard  made  advances  toward  reconciliation,  which 
Abelard  accepted;  whereupon  his  excommunication  was  removed. 
Then  the  once  proud  Abelard,  shattered  in  body  and  broken  in  spirit, 
had  nothing  more  to  do  but  to  prepare  for  another  life.  And  the  end 
was  not  far  off.  He  died  at  St.  Marcel,  on  the  21st  of  April,  1142, 
at  the   age  of   sixty-three.     His  generous  host,  in  a  letter  to  Heloise, 


2  6  ABELARD 

gives  a  touching  account  of  his  closing  days,  which  were  mostly 
spent  in  a  retreat  provided  for  him  on  the  banks  of  the  Saone. 
There  he  read,  wrote,  dictated,  and  prayed,  in  the  only  quiet  days 
which  his  life  ever  knew. 

The  body  of  Abelard  was  placed  in  a  monolith  coffin  and  buried 
in  the  chapel  of  the  monastery  of  St.  Marcel ;  but  Peter  the  Vener- 
able twenty-two  years  afterward  allowed  it  to  be  secretly  removed, 
and  carried  to  the  Paraclete,  where  Abelard  had  wished  to  lie.  When 
Heloise,  world-famous  for  learning,  virtue,  and  saintliness,  passed 
away,  and  her  body  was  laid  beside  his,  he  opened  his  arms  and 
clasped  her  in  close  embrace.  So  says  the  legend,  and  who  would 
not  believe  it  ?  The  united  remains  of  the  immortal  lovers,  after 
many  vicissitudes,  found  at  last  (let  us  hope),  in  1817,  a  permanent 
resting  place,  in  the  Parisian  cemetery  of  Pere  Lachaise,  having  been 
placed  together  in  Abelard's  monolith  coffin.  "  In  death  they  were 
not  divided.** 

Abelard's  character  may  be  summed  up  in  a  few  words.  He  was 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  and  variously  gifted  men  that  ever  lived,  a 
sincere  lover  of  truth  and  champion  of  freedom.  But  unfortunately, 
his  extraordinary  personal  beauty  and  charm  of  manner  made  him 
the  object  of  so  much  attention  and  adulation  that  he  soon  became 
unable  to  live  without  seeing  himself  mirrored  in  the  admiration 
and  love  of  others.  Hence  his  restlessness,  irritability,  craving  foi 
publicity,  fondness  for  dialectic  triumph,  and  inability  to  live  in 
fruitful  obscurity;  hence,  too,  his  intrigue  with  Heloise,  his  continual 
struggles  and  disappointments,  his  final  humiliation  and  tragic  end. 
Not  having  conquered  the  world,  he  cannot  claim  the  crown  of  the 
martyr. 

Abelard's  works  were  collected  by  Cousin,  and  published  in  three 
4to  volumes  (Paris,  1836,  1849,  1859).  They  include,  besides  the  cor- 
respondence with  Heloise,  and  a  number  of  sermons,  hymns,  answers 
to  questions,  etc.,  written  for  her,  the  following :-,-(i)  *  Sic  et  Non,* 
a  collection  of  (often  contradictory)  statements  of  the  Fathers  con- 
cerning the  chief  dogmas  of  religion,  (2)  *  Dialectic,*  (3)  ^  On  Genera 
and  Species,*  (4)  Glosses  to  Porphyry's  <  Introduction,*  Aristotle's 
*  Categories  and  Interpretation,*  and  Boethius's  *  Topics,*  (5)  <  Intro- 
duction to  Theology,*  (6)  ^Christian  Theology,*  (7)  ^Commentary  on 
the  Epistle  to  the  Romans,*  (9)  <  Abstract  of  Christian  Theology,*  (10) 
< Ethics,  or  Know  Thyself,*  (11)  ^Dialogue  between  a  Philosopher,  a 
Jew,  and  a  Christian,*  (12)  'On  the  Intellects,*  (12)  'On  the  Hex- 
ameron,*  with  a  few  short  and  unimportant  fragments  and  tracts. 
None  of  Abelard's  numerous  poems  in  the  vernacular,  in  which  he 
celebrated  his  love  for  Heloise,  which  he  sang  ravishingly  (for  he  was 
a  famous  singer),    and   which  at  once  became  widely  popular,    seem 


ABELARD  29 

to  have  come  down  to  us;  but  we  have  a  somewhat  lengthy  poem, 
of  considerable  merit  (though  of  doubtful  authenticity),  addressed  to 
his  son  Astralabius,  who  grew  to  manhood,  became  a  cleric,  and  died, 
it  seems,  as  abbot  of  Hauterive  in  Switzerland,  in  1162. 

Of  Abelard's  philosophy,  little  need  be  added  to  what  has  been 
already  said.  It  is,  on  the  whole,  the  philosophy  of  the  Middle  Age, 
with  this  difference:  that  he  insists  upon  making  theology  rational, 
and  thus  may  truly  be  called  the  founder  of  modern  rationalism,  and 
I  the  initiator  of  the  struggle  against  the  tyrannic  authority  of  blind 
faith.  To  have  been  so  is  his  crowning  merit,  and  is  one  that  can 
hardly  be  overestimated.  At  the  same  time  it  must  be  borne  in  mind 
that  he  was  a  loyal  son  of  the  Church,  and  never  dreamed  of  oppos- 
ing or  undermining  her.  His  greatest  originality  is  in  < Ethics,^  in 
which,  by  placing  the  essence  of  morality  in  the  intent  and  not  in 
the  action,  he  anticipated  Kant  and  much  modern  speculation. 
Here  he  did  admirable  work.  Abelard  founded  no  school,  strictly 
speaking;  nevertheless,  he  determined  the  method  and  aim  of  Scho- 
lasticism, and  exercised  a  boundless  influence,  which  is  not  dead. 
Descartes  and  Kant  are  his  children.  Among  his  immediate  disciples 
were  a  pope,  twenty-nine  cardinals,  and  more  than  fifty  bishops.  His 
two  greatest  pupils  were  Peter  the  Lombard,  bishop  of  Paris,  and 
author  of  the  ^  Sentences,  >  the  theological  text-book  of  the  schools  for 
hundreds  of  years;  and  Arnold  of  Brescia,  one  of  the  noblest  cham- 
pions of  human  liberty,  though  condemned  and  banished  by  the  second 
Council  of  the  Lateran. 

The  best  biography  of  Abelard  is  that  by  Charles  de  Remusat  (2 
vols.,  8vo,  Paris,  1845).  See  also,  in  English,  Wight's  < Abelard  and 
Eloise^  (New  York,   1853), 


HfiLOi'SE    TO    ABELARD 

A  LETTER  of  yours  sent  to  a  friend,  best  beloved,  to  console  him 
in   affliction,   was  lately,  almost   by   a   chance,    put  into  my 
hands.      Seeing-    the    superscription,    guess    how    eagerly    I 
seized  it !      I   had  lost  the  reality ;  I  hoped  to  draw  some  comfort 
from  this  faint  image  of  you.     But  alas!  —  for  I  well  remember  — 
every  line  was  written  with  gall  and  wormwood. 

How  you  retold  our  sorrowful  history,  and  dwelt  on  your  inces- 
sant afflictions!    Well  did  you  fulfill  that  promise  to  your  friend, 


28  ABfiLARD 

that,  in  comparison  with  your  own,  his  misfortunes  should  seem 
but  as  trifles.  You  recalled  the  persecutions  of  your  masters,  the 
cruelty  of  my  uncle,  and  the  fierce  hostility  of  your  fellow-pupils, 
Albericus  of  Rheims,  and  Lotulphus  of  Lombardy  —  how  through 
their  plottings  that  glorious  book  your  Theology  was  burned,  and 
you  confined  and  disgraced  —  you  went  on  to  the  machinations  of 
the  Abbot  of  St.  Denys  and  of  your  false  brethren  of  the  con- 
vent, and  the  calumnies  of  those  wretches,  Norbert  and  Bernard, 
who  envy  and  hate  you.  It  was  even,  you  say,  imputed  to  you 
as  an  offense  to  have  given  the  name  of  Paraclete,  contrary  to 
the  common  practice,  to  the  Oratory  you  had  founded. 

The  persecutions  of  that  cruel  tyrant  of  St.  Gildas,  and  of 
those  execrable  monks, —  monks  out  of  greed  only,  whom  notwith- 
standing you  call  your  children, — which  still  harass  you,  close  the 
miserable  history.  Nobody  could  read  or  hear  these  things  and 
not  be  moved  to  tears.     What  then  must  they  mean  to  me  ? 

We  all  despair  of  your  life,  and  our  trembling  hearts  dread  to 
hear  the  tidings  of  your  murder.  For  Christ's  sake,  who  has 
thus  far  protected  you, — write  to  us,  as  to  His  handmaids  and 
yours,  every  circumstance  of  your  present  dangers.  I  and  my 
sisters  alone  remain  of  all  who  were  your  friends.  Let  us  be 
sharers  of  your  joys  and  sorrows.  Sympathy  brings  some  relief, 
and  a  load  laid  on  many  shoulders  is  lighter.  And  write  the  more 
surely,  if  your  letters  may  be  messengers  of  joy.  Whatever  mes- 
sage they  bring,  at  least  they  will  show  that  you  remember  us. 
You  can  write  to  comfort  your  friend:  while  you  soothe  his 
wounds,  you  inflame  mine.  Heal,  I  pray  you,  those  you  yourself 
have  made,  you  who  bustle  about  to  cure  those  for  which  you  are 
not  responsible.  You  cultivate  a  vineyard  you  did  not  plant, 
which  grows  nothing.  Give  heed  to  what  you  owe  your  own. 
You  who  spend  so  much  on  the  obstinate,  consider  what  you  owe 
the  obedient.  You  who  lavish  pains  on  your  enemies,  reflect  on 
what  you  owe  your  daughters.  And,  counting  nothing  else,  think 
how  you  are  bound  to  me!  What  you  owe  to  all  devoted  women, 
pay  to  her  who  is  most  devoted. 

You  know  better  than  I  how  many  treatises  the  holy  fathers 
of  the  Church  have  written  for  our  instruction;  how  they  have 
labored  to  inform,  to  advise,  and  to  console  us.  Is  my  ignorance 
to  suggest  knowledge  to  the  learned  Abelard  ?  Long  ago,  indeed, 
your  neglect  astonished  me.  Neither  religion,  nor  love  of  me,  nor 
the   example   of   the   holy   fathers,   moved   you   to  tr}^  to   fix  my 


I 


ABELARD  20 

struggling  soul.  Never,  even  when  long  grief  had  worn  me  down, 
did  you  come  to  see  me,  or  send  me  one  line  of  comfort, — me,  to 
whom  you  were  bound  by  marriage,  and  who  clasp  you  about  with 
a  measureless  love !  And  for  the  sake  of  this  love  have  I  no 
right  to  even  a  thought  of  yours  ? 

You  well  know,  dearest,  how  much  I  lost  in  losing  you,  and 
that  the  manner  of  it  put  me  to  double  torture.  You  only  can 
comfort  me.  By  you  I  was  wounded,  and  by  you  I  must  be 
healed.  And  it  is  only  you  on  whom  the  debt  rests.  I  have 
obeyed  the  last  tittle  of  your  commands;  and  if  you  bade  me,  I 
would  sacrifice  my  soul. 

To  please  you  my  love  gave  up  the  only  thing  in  the  universe 
it  valued  —  the  hope  of  your  presence  —  and  that  forever.  The 
instant  I  received  your  commands  I  quitted  the  habit  of  the 
world,  and  denied  all  the  wishes  of  my  nature.  I  meant  to  give 
up,  for  your  sake,  whatever  I  had  once  a  right  to  call  my  own, 

God  knows  it  was  always  you,  and  you  only  that  I  thought  of. 
I  looked  for  no  dowr}%  no  alliance  of  marriage.  And  if  the  name 
of  wife  is  holier  and  more  exalted,  the  name  of  friend  always 
remained  sweeter  to  me,  or  if  you  would  not  be  angry,  a  meaner 
title;  since  the  more  I  gave  up,  the  less  should  I  injure  your 
present  reno\vn,  and  the  more  deserve  your  love. 

Nor  had  you  yourself  forgotten  this  in  that  letter  which  I 
recall.  You  are  ready  enough  to  set  forth  some  of  the  reasons 
which  I  used  to  you,  to  persuade  you  not  to  fetter  your  freedom, 
but  you  pass  over  most  of  the  pleas  I  made  to  withhold  you  from 
our  ill-fated  wedlock.  I  call  God  to  witness  that  if  Augustus, 
ruler  of  the  world,  should  think  me  worthy  the  honor  of  marriage, 
and  settle  the  whole  globe  on  me  to  rule  forever,  it  would  seem 
dearer  and  prouder  to  me  to  be  called  your  mistress  than  his 
empress. 

Not  because  a  man  is  rich  or  powerful  is  he  better :  riches 
and  power  may  come  from  luck,  constancy  is  from  virtue.  / 
hold  that  woman  base  who  weds  a  rich  man  rather  than  a  poor 
one,  and  takes  a  husband  for  her  own  gain.  Whoever  marries 
with  such  a  motive — why,  she  will  follow  his  prosperity  rather 
than  the  man,  and  be  willing  to  sell  herself  to  a  richer  suitor. 

That  happiness  which  others  imagine,  best  beloved,  I  experi- 
enced. Other  women  might  think  their  husbands  perfect,  and  be 
happy  in  the  idea,  but  I  knew  that  you  were  so  and  the  universe 
knew  the   same.     What   philosopher,  what   king,  could  rival  your 


3° 


ABELARD 


fame  ?  What  village,  city,  kingdom,  was  not  on  fire  to  see  you  ? 
When  you  appeared  in  public,  who  did  not  run  to  behold  you  ? 
Wives  and  maidens  alike  recognized  your  beauty  and  grace. 
Queens  envied  HdloYse  her  Abelard. 

Two  gifts  you  had  to  lead  captive  the  proudest  soul,  your  voice 
that  made  all  your  teaching  a  delight,  and  your  singing,  which 
was  like  no  other.  Do  you  forget  those  tender  songs  you  wrote 
for  me,  which  all  the  world  caught  up  and  sang, —  but  not  like 
you, —  those  songs  that  kept  your  name  ever  floating  in  the  air, 
and  made  me  known  through  many  lands,  the  envy  and  the  scorn 
of  women  ? 

What  gifts  of  mind,  what  gifts  of  person  glorified  you  !  Oh, 
my  loss  !   Who  would  change  places  with  me  now  ! 

And  you  know,  Abelard,  that  though  I  am  the  great  cause 
of  your  misfortunes,  I  am  most  innocent.  For  a  consequence  is 
no  part  of  a  crime.  Justice  weighs  not  the  thing  done,  but  the 
intention.  And  how  pure  was  my  intention  toward  you,  you  alone 
can  judge.     Judge  me  !     I  will  submit. 

But  how  happens  it,  tell  me,  that  since  my  profession  of  the 
life  which  you  alone  determined,  I  have  been  so  neglected  and  so 
forgotten  that  you  will  neither  see  me  nor  write  to  me  ?  Make 
me  understand  it,  if  you  can,  or  I  must  tell  you  what  everybody 
says  :  that  it  was  not  a  pure  love  like  mine  that  held  your  heart, 
and  that  your  coarser  feeling  vanished  with  absence  and  ill-report. 
Would  that  to  me  alone  this  seemed  so,  best  beloved,  and  not  to 
all  the  world  !  Would  that  I  could  hear  others  excuse  you,  or 
devise  excuses  myself  ! 

The  things  I  ask  ought  to  seem  very  small  and  easy  to  you. 
While  I  starve  for  you,  do,  now  and  then,  by  words,  bring  back 
your  presence  to  me  !  How  can  you  be  generous  in  deeds  if  you 
are  so  avaricious  in  words  ?  I  have  done  everything  for  your 
sake.  It  was  not  religion  that  dragged  me,  a  young  girl,  so  fond 
of  life,  so  ardent,  to  the  harshness  of  the  convent,  but  only  your 
command.  If  I  deserve  nothing  from  you,  how  vain  is  my  labor  ! 
God  will  not  recompense  me,  for  whose  love  I  have  done  nothing. 

When  you  resolved  to  take  the  vows,  I  followed, — rather,  I 
ran  before.  You  had  the  image  of  Lot's  wife  before  your  eyes  ; 
you  feared  I  might  look  back,  and  therefore  you  deeded  me  to 
God  by  the  sacred  vestments  and  irrevocable  vows  before  you 
took  them  yourself.  For  this,  I  own,  I  grieved,  bitterly  ashamed 
that  I  coi;lJ  depend  on  you  so  little,  when  I  would  lead  or  follow 


ABELARD 


31 


you  straig-ht  to  perdition.  For  my  soul  is  always  with  you  and 
no  longer  mine  own.  And  if  it  is  not  with  you  in  these  last 
wretched  years,  it  is  nowhere.  Do  receive  it  kindly.  Oh,  if  only 
you  had  returned  favor  for  favor,  even  a  little  for  the  much, 
v/ords  for  things  !  Would,  beloved,  that  your  affection  would  not 
take  my  tenderness  and  obedience  always  for  granted ;  that  it 
might  be  more  anxious  !  But  just  because  I  have  poured  out  all 
I  have  and  am,  you  give  tne  nothing.  Remember,  oh,  remember 
how  much  you  owe  ! 

There  was  a  time  when  people  doubted  whether  I  had  given 
you  all  my  heart,  asking  nothing.  But  the  end  shows  how  I 
began.  I  have  denied  myself  a  life  which  promised  at  least  peace 
and  work  in  the  world,  only  to  obey  your  hard  exactions.  I  have 
kept  back  nothing  for  myself,  except  the  comfort  of  pleasing  you. 
How  hard  and  cruel  afe  you  then,  when  I  ask  so  little  and  that 
little  is  so  easy  for  you  to  give  ! 

In  the  name  of  God,  to  whom  you  are  dedicate,  send  me  some 
lines  of  consolation.  Help  me  to  leam  obedience  !  When  you 
wooed  me  because  earthly  love  was  beautiful,  you  sent  me  letter 
after  letter.  With  your  divine  singing  every  street  and  house 
echoed  my  name  !  How  much  more  ought  you  now  to  persuade 
to  God  her  whom  then  you  turned  from  Him  !  Heed  what  I  ask  ; 
think  what  you  owe.  I  have  written  a  long  letter,  but  the  ending 
shall  be  short.     Farewell,  darling  ! 

ABfiLARD'S  ANSWER  TO  HELOISE 

To  Hiloise,  his  best  beloved  Sister  in  Christ, 
Abe'lard,  her  Brother  in  Him: 

IF,  SINCE  we  resigned  the  world  I  have  not  written  to  you,  it  was 
because  of  the  high  opinion  I  have  ever  entertained  of  your 
wisdom  and  prudence.     How  could  I  think  that  she  stood  in 
need  of  help  on  whom  Heaven  had  showered  its  best  gifts  ?     You 
were  able,  I  knew,  by  example  as  by  word,  to  instruct  the  igno- 
rant, to  comfort  the  timid,  to  kindle  the  lukewarm. 

When  prioress  of  Argenteuil,  you  practiced  all  these  duties-, 
and  if  you  give  the  same  attention  to  your  daughters  that  you 
then  gave  to  your  sisters,  it  is  enough.  All  my  exhortations  would 
be  needless.  But  if,  in  your  humility,  you  think  otherwise,  and  if 
my  words  can  avail  you  anything,  tell  me  on  what  subjects  yon 
would  have  me  write,  and  as  God  shall  direct  me  I  will  instruct 


32  ABfiLARD 

you.  I  thank  God  that  the  constant  dangers  to  which  I  am 
exposed  rouse  your  sympathies.  Thus  I  may  hope,  under  the 
divine  protection  of  your  prayers,  to  see  Satan  bruised  under  my 
feet. 

Therefore  I  hasten  to  send  you  the  form  of  prayer  you 
beseech  of  me  —  you,  my  sister,  once  dear  to  me  in  the  world,  but 
now  far  dearer  in  Christ.  Offer  to  God  a  constant  sacrifice  of 
prayer.  Urge  him  to  pardon  our  great  and  manifold  sins,  and  to 
avert  the  dangers  which  threaten  me.  We  know  how  powerful 
before  God  and  his  saints  are  the  prayers  of  the  faithful,  but 
chiefly  of  faithful  ^women  for  their  friends,  and  of  wives  for  their 
husbands.  The  Apostle  admonishes  us  to  pray  without  ceasing. 
But  I  will  not  insist  on  the  supplications  of  your  sister- 
hood, day  and  night  devoted  to  the  service  of  their  Maker;  to 
you  only  do  I  turn.  I  well  know  how  powerful  your  intercession 
may  be.  I  pray  you,  exert  it  in  this  my  need.  In  your  prayers, 
then,  ever  remember  him  who,  in  a  special  sense,  is  yours.  Urge 
your  entreaties,  for  it  is  just  that  you  should  be  heard.  An  equi- 
table judge  cannot  refuse  it. 

In  former  days,  you  remember,  best  beloved,  how  fervently 
you  recommended  me  to  the  care  of  Providence.  Often  in  the 
day  you  uttered  a  special  petition.  Removed  now  from  the  Para- 
clete, and  surrounded  by  perils,  how  much  greater  my  need !  Con- 
vince me  of  the  sincerity  of  your  regard,  I  entreat,  I  implore  you. 

[The  Prayer :]  <*  O  God,  who  by  Thy  servant  didst  here  assem- 
ble Thy  handmaids  in  Thy  Holy  Name,  grant,  we  beseech  Thee, 
that  he  be  protected  from  all  adversity,  and  be  restored  safe  to 
us.  Thy  handmaids.*^ 

If  Heaven  permit  my  enemies  to  destroy  me,  or  if  I  perish  by 
accident,  see  that  my  body  is  conveyed  to  the  Paraclete.  There, 
my  daughters,  or  rather  my  sisters  in  Christ,  seeing  my  tomb,  will 
not  cease  to  implore  Heaven  for  me.  No  resting-place  is  so  safe 
for  the  grieving  soul,  forsaken  in  the  wilderness  of  its  sins,  none 
so  full  of  hope  as  that  which  is  dedicated  to  the  Paraclete  —  that 
is,  the  Comforter. 

Where  could  a  Christian  find  a  more  peaceful  grave  than  in 
the  society  of  holy  women,  consecrated  by  God  ?  They,  as  the 
Gospel  tells  us,  would  not  leave  their  divine  Master;  they  em- 
balmed His  body  with  precious  spices;  they  followed  Him  to  the 
tomb,  and  there  they  held  their  vigil.  In  return,  it  was  to  them 
that  the  angel  of  the  resurrection  appeared  for  their  consolation. 


ab6lard  23 

Finally,  let  me  entreat  yon  that  the  solicitude  you  now  too 
strongly  feel  for  my  life  you  will  extend  to  the  repose  of  my  soul. 
Carry  into  my  grave  the  love  yoif  showed  me  when  alive;  that  is, 
never  forget  to  pray  Heaven  for  me. 

Long  life,  farewell!  Long  life,  farewell,  to  your  sisters  also! 
Remember  me,  but  let  it  be  in  Christ! 

Translated  for  the  < World's  Best  Literature.* 


THE    VESPER    HYMN    OF    ABELARD      ^ 

OH,  WHAT  shall  be,  oh,  when  shall  be  that  holy  Sabbath  day. 
Which  heavenly  care  shall  ever  keep  and  celebrate  alway, 
When    rest   is    found    for   weary  limbs,    when    labor   hath 
reward, 
When  everything  forevermore  is  joyful  in  the  Lord? 

The  true  Jerusalem  above,  the  holy  town,  is  there, 
Whose  duties  are  so  full  of  joy,  whose  joy  so  free  from  care; 
Where  disappointment  cometh  not  to  check  the  longing  heart. 
And  where  the  heart,  in  ecstasy,  hath  gained  her  better  part. 

O  glorious  King,  O  happy  state,  O  palace  of  the  blest! 

O  sacred  place  and  holy  joy,  and  perfect,  heavenly  rest! 

To  thee  aspire  thy  citizens  in  glory's  bright  array. 

And  what  they  feel  and  what  they  know  they  strive  in  vain  to  say. 

For  while  we  wait  and  long  for  home,  it  shall  be  ours  to  raise 
Our  songs   and   chants  and  vows  and  prayers  in  that  dear  coun- 
try's praise; 
And  from  these  Babylonian  streams  to  lift  our  weary  eyes, 
And  view  the  city  that  we  love  descending  from  the  skies. 

There,  there,  secure  from  every  ill,  in  freedom  we  shall  sing 
The  songs  of  Zion,  hindered  here  by  days  of  suffering. 
And  unto  Thee,  our  gracious  Lord,  our  praises  shall  confess 
That  all  our  sorrow  hath  been  good,  and  Thou  by  pain  canst  bless. 

There  Sabbath  day  to  Sabbath  day  sheds  on  a  ceaseless  light, 
Eternal  pleasure  of  the  saints  who  keep  that  Sabbath  bright; 
Nor  shall  the  chant  ineffable  decline,  nor  ever  cease. 
Which  we  with  all  the  angels  sing  in  that  sweet  realm  of  peace. 

Translation  of  Dr.  Samuel  W.  Duffield. 
1—3 


34 


EDMOND   ABOUT 

(1828-1885) 

Urly  in  the  reign  of  Louis  Napoleon,  a  serial  story  called 
<  Tolla,  *  a  vivid  study  of  social  life  in  Rome,  delighted  the 
readers  of  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes.  When  published 
in  book  form  in  1855  it  drew  a  storm  of  opprobrium  upon  its  young 
author,  who  was  accused  of  offering  as  his  own  creation  a  translation 
of  the  Italian  work  <Vittoria  Savorelli.^  This  charge,  undoubtedly 
unjust,  he  indignantly  refuted.  It  served  at  least  to  make  his  name 
well  known.  Another  book,  <La  Question  Romaine,'  a  brilliant  if 
somewhat  superficial  argument  against   the   temporal  power   of  pope 

and  priests,  was  a  philosophic  employment 
of  the  same  material.  Appearing  in  i860, 
about  the  epoch  of  the  French  invasion  of 
Austrian  Italy,  its  tone  agreed  with  popular 
sentiment  and  it  was  favorably  received. 

Edmond  Francois  Valentin  About  had  a 
freakish,  evasive,  many-sided  personality,  a 
nature  drawn  in  too  many  directions  tJ 
achieve  in  any  one  of  these  the  success  his 
talents  warranted.  He  was  born  in  Dr'^uze, 
and  like  most  French  boys  of  literary  am- 
bition, soon  found  his  way  to  Paris,  where 
he  studied  at  the  Lycee  Charlemagne.  Here 
he  won  the  honor  prize;  and  in  1851  was  sent  to  Athens  to  study 
archseology  at  the  Ecole  Frangaise.  He  loved  change  and  ,out-of- 
the-way  experiences,  and  two  studies  resulted  from  this  trip:  <La 
Grece  Contemporaine, ^  a  book  of  charming  philosophic  description; 
and  the  delightful  story  <  Le  Roi  des  Montagnes*  (The  King  of  the 
Mountains).  This  tale  of  the  long-limbed  German  student,  enveloped 
in  the  smoke  from  his  porcelain  pipe  as  he  recounts  a  series  of 
impossible  adventures,  —  those  of  himself  and  two  Englishwomen, 
captured  for  ransom  by  Hadgi  Stavros,  brigand  king  in  the  Grecian' 
mountains,  — is  especially  characteristic  of  About  in  the  humorous  - 
atmosphere  of  every  situation. 

About  wrote  stories  so  easily  and  well  that  his  early  desertion  of 
fiction  is  surprising.  His  mocking  spirit  has  often  suggested  compar- 
ison with  Voltaire,  whom  he  studied  and  admired.  He  too  is  a  skep- 
tic and  an  idol-breaker;  but  his  is  a  kindlier  irony,  a  less  incisive 
philosophy.  Perhaps,  however,  this  influeirce  led  to  lack  of  faith  in 
his   own  work,  to    his   loss   of   an   ideal,  which    Zola   thinks   the   real 


•^ 


Edmond  About 


EDMOND  ABOUT  ,5 

secret  of  his  sudden  change  from  novelist  to  journalist.  Voltaire 
taught  him  to  scoff  and  disbelieve,  to  demand  **  a  quoi  bon  ?  ^^  and  that 
took  the  heart  out  of  him.  He  was  rather  fond  of  exposing  abuses, 
a  habit  that  appears  in  those  witty  letters  to  the  Gaulois  which  in 
1878  obliged  him  to  suspend  that  journal.  His  was  a  positive  mind, 
interested  in  political  affairs,  and  with  something  always  ready  to 
say  upon  them.  In  1872  he  founded  a  radical  newspaper,  Le  XlXme 
Siecle  (The  Nineteenth  Century),  in  association  with  another  aggress- 
ive spirit,  that  of  Francisque  Sarcey.  For  many  years  he  proved  his 
ability  as  editor,  business  man,  and  keen  polemist. 

He  tried  drama,  too,  inevitable  ambition  of  young  French  authors; 
but  after  the  failure  of  *■  Guillery  >  at  the  Theatre  Frangaise  and 
*  Gaetena  *  at  the  Odeon,  renounced  the  theatre.  Indeed,  his  power 
is  in  odd  conceptions,  in  the  covert  laugh  and  humorous  suggestion 
of  the  phrasing,  rather  than  in  plot  or  characterization.  He  will 
always  be  best  known  for  the  tales  and  novels  in  that  thoroughly 
French  style  —  clear,  concise,  and  witty  —  which  in  1878  elected  him 
president  of  the  Societe  des  Gens  de  Lettres,  and  in  1884  won  him  a 
seat  in  the  Academy. 

About  wrote  a  number  of  novels,  most  of  them  as  well  known 
in  translation  to  English  and  American  readers  as  to  his  French 
audience.  The  bright  stories  originally  published  in  the  Moniteur, 
afterward  collected  with  the  title  *  Les  Mariages  de  Paris,  ^  had  a  con- 
spicuous success,  and  were  followed  by  a  companion  volume,  <Les 
Mariages  de  Province.*  <L'Homme  a  I'Oreille  Cassee*  (The  Man 
with  the  Broken  Ear)  —  the  story  of  a  mummy  resuscitated  to  a  world 
of  new  conditions  after  many  years  of  apparent  death  —  shows  his 
freakish  delight  in  oddity.  So  does  *  Le  Nez  du  Notaire  *  (The 
Notary's  Nose),  a  gruesome  tale  of  the  tribulations  of  a  handsome 
society  man,  whose  nose  is  struck  off  in  a  duel  by  a  revengeful  Turk. 
The  victim  buys  a  bit  of  living  skin  from  a  poor  water-carrier,  and 
obtains  a  new  nose  by  successful  grafting.  But  he  can  nevermore  get 
rid  of  the  uncongenial  Aquarius,  who  exercises  occult  influence  ovef 
the  skin  with  which  he  has  parted.  When  he  drinks  too  much,  the 
Notary's  nose  is  red;  when  he  starves,  it  dwindles  away;  when  he 
loses  the  arm  from  which  the  graft  was  made,  the  important  feature 
drops  off  altogether,  and  the  sufferer  must  needs  buy  a  silver  one. 
About's  latest  novel,  <  Le  Roman  d'un  Brave  Homme  >  (The  Story  of 
an  Honest  Man),  is  in  quite  another  vein,  a  charming  picture  of 
bourgeois  virtue  in  revolutionary  days.  <  Madelon  >  and  <  La  Vielle 
Roche  >  (The  Old  School)  are  also  popular. 

French  critics  have  not  found  much  to  say  of  this  non-evolutionist 
of  letters,  who  is  neither  pure  realist  nor  pure  romanticist,  and  who 
has  no  new  theory  of  art.     Some,  indeed,  may  have  scorned   him  for 


36  EDMONt>   ABOUT 

the  wise  taste  which  refuses  to  tread  the  debatable  ground  common 
to  French  fiction.  But  the  reading  public  has  received  him  with  less 
conscious  analysis,  and  has  delighted  in  him.  If  he  sees  only  what 
any  clever  man  may  see,  and  is  no  profound  psychologist,  yet  he 
tells  what  he  sees  and  what  he  imagines  with  delightful  spirit  and 
delightful  wit,  and  tinges  the  fabric  of  his  fancy  with  the  ever-chan- 
ging colors  of  his  own  versatile  personality,  fanciful  suggestions, 
homely  realism,  and  bright  antithesis.  Above  all,  he  has  the  great 
gift  of  the  story-teller. 


THE    CAPTURE 

From  <The  King  of  the  Mountains) 
«  O  X  !  St  !  '^ 
O  I  raised  my  eyes.  Two  thickets  of  mastic-trees  and  arbutus 
inclosed  the  road  on  the  right  and  left.  From  each  tuft 
of  trees  protruded  three  or  four  musket-barrels.  A  voice  cried 
out  in  Greek,  "  Seat  yourselves  on  the  ground !  ^^  This  operation 
was  the  more  easy  to  me,  as  my  legs  gave  vvray  under  me.  But  I 
consoled  myself  by  thinking  that  Ajax,  Agamemnon,  and  the  fiery 
Achilles,  if  they  had  found  themselves  in  the  same  situation,  would 
not  have  refused  the  seat  that  was  offered. 

The  musket-barrels  were  leveled  upon  us.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  they  stretched  out  immeasurably,  and  that  their  muzzles  were 
about  to  join  above  our  heads.  It  was  not  that  fear  disturbed  my 
vision;  but  I  had  never  remarked  so  sensibly  the  desperate  length 
of  the  Greek  muskets!  The  whole  arsenal  soon  debouched  into 
the  road,  and  every  barrel  showed  its  stock  and  its  master. 

The  only  difference  which  exists  between  devils  and  brigands 
is,  that  devils  are  less  black  than  they  are  said  to  be,  and  brigands 
more  dirty  than  people  suppose.  The  eight  bullies,  who  packed 
themselves  in  a  circle  around  us,  were  so  filthy  in  appearance  that 
I  should  have  wished  to  give  them  my  money  with  a  pair  of  tongs. 
You  might  guess,  with  a  little  effort,  that  their  caps  had  been 
red;  but  lye-wash  itself  could  not  have  restored  the  original  color 
of  their  clothes.  All  the  rocks  of  the  kingdom  had  stained  their 
cotton  shirts,  and  their  vests  preserved  a  sample  of  the  different 
soils  on  which  they  had  reposed.  Their  hands,  their  faces,  and 
even  their  moustachios  were  of  a  reddish-gray,  like  the  soil  which 
supports  them.  Every  animal  is  colored  according  to  its  abode 
and  its  habits:  the  foxes  of  Greenland  are  of  the  color  of  snow; 


EDMOND  ABOUT 


37 


lions,  of  the  desert;  partridges,  of  the  furrrw;  Greek  brigands,  of 
the  highway. 

The  chief  of  the  little  troop  which  had  nade  us  prisoners  was 
distinguished  by  no  outward  mark.  Perhaps,  however,  his  face, 
his  hands,  and  his  clothes  were  richer  h>  iust  than  those  of  his 
comrades.  He  leaned  toward  us  from  the  height  of  his  tall  figure, 
and  examined  us  so  closely  that  I  felt  t^e  g^razing  of  his  mous- 
tachios.  You  would  have  pronounced  h'm  a  tiger,  who  smells  of 
his  prey  before  tasting  it.  When  his  curiosity  was  satisfied,  he 
said  to  Dimitri,  "  Empty  your  pocketf> '  * 

Dimitri  did  not  give  him  cause  Vj  repeat  the  order:  he  threw 
down  before  him  a  knife,  a  tobacjo-pouch,  and  three  Mexican 
dollars,  which  compose  a  sura  o^  a^jout  sixteen  francs. 

*^  Is  that  all  ?  **  demande'l  'ihe  brigand. 

*Yes,  brother." 

*  You  are  the  servant  ? 

«Yes,  brother." 

"Take  back  one  dollar  You  must  not  return  to  the  city 
Arithout  money." 

Dimitri  haggled.  *'  Vcd  could  well  allow  me  two, "  said  he :  *  I 
bp.ve  two  horses  below;  they,  are  hired  from  the  riding-school;  I 
.•ihall  have  to  pay  for  ♦^he  day." 

"You  will  ex-p]'\vi  to  Zimmerman  that  we  have  taken  your 
Honey  from  you." 

"  And  if  he  w'.shes  to  be  paid,  notwithstanding  ? " 

"An'iwer  that  he  is  lucky  enough  to  see  his  horses  again." 

"  He  knows  very  well  that  you  do  not  take  horses.  What 
•vould  you  do  with  them  in  the  mountains  ? " 

"  Enough !     What  is  this  big  raw-boned  animal  next  you  ?  " 

I  answered  for  myself:  "An  honest  German,  whose  spoils  will 
-c»ot  enrich  you." 

"You  speak  Greek  well.     Empty  your  pockets." 

I  deposited  on  the  road  a  score  of  francs,  my  tobacco,  my 
pipe,  and  my  handkerchief. 

"  What  is  that  ? "  asked  the  grand  inquisitor. 

"A  handkerchief." 

"  For  what  purpose  ? " 

"To  wipe  my  nose." 

"  Why  did  you  tell  me  that  you  were  poor  ?  It  is  only  milords 
who  wipe  their  noses  with  handkerchiefs.  Take  off  the  box  which 
you  have  behind  your  back.     Good !     Open  it !  " 


38 


EDMOND   ABOUT 


My  box  contained  some  plants,  a  book,  a  knife,  a  little  pack- 
age of  arsenic,  a  gourd  nearly  empty,  and  the  remnants  of  my 
breakfast,  which  kindled  a  look  of  covetousness  in  the  eyes  of 
Mrs.  Simons.  I  had  the  assurance  to  offer  them  to  her  before  my 
baggage  changed  masters.  She  accepted  greedily,  .and  began  to 
devour  the  bread  and  meat.  To  my  great  astonishment,  this  act 
of  gluttony  scandalized  our  robbers,  who  murmured  among  them- 
selves the  word  ^*  Schismatic !  ^^  The  monk  made  half  a  dozen 
signs  of  the  cross,  according  to  the  rite  of  the  Greek  Church. 

*  You  must  have  a  watch,  '^  said  the  brigand :  ^*  put  it  with  the 
rest. » 

I  gave  up  my  silver  watch,  a  hereditary  toy  of  the  weight 
of  four  ounces.  The  villains  passed  it  from  hand  to  hand,  and 
thought  it  very  beautiful.  I  was  in  hopes  that  admiration,  which 
makes  men  better,  would  dispose  them  to  restore  me  something, 
and  I  begged  their  chief  to  let  me  have  my  tin  box.  He  imposed 
silence  upon  me  roughly.  ^^At  least,  ^*  said  I,  **give  me  back  two 
crowns  for  my  return  to  the  city !  '*  He  answered  with  a  sardonic 
smile,   "  Yoii  will  not  have  need  of  them. '^ 

The  turn  of  Mrs.  Simons  had  come.  Before  putting  her  hand 
in  her  pocket,  she  warned  our  conquerors  in  the  language  of  her 
fathers.  The  English  is  one  of  those  rare  idioms  which  one  can 
speak  with  a  mouth  full.  "  Reflect  well  on  what  you  are  going  to 
do,''  said  she,  in  a  menacing  tone.  "I  am  an  Englishwoman,  and 
English  subjects  are  inviolable  in  all  the  countries  of  the  world. 
What  you  will  take  from  me  will  serve  you  little,  and  will  cost 
you  dear.  England  will  avenge  me,  and  you  will  all  be  hanged, 
to  say  the  least.  Now  if  you  wish  my  money,  you  have  only  to 
speak ;    but  it  will  bum  your  fingers :  it  is  English  money ! '' 

*^  What  does  she  say  ? ''  asked  the  spokesman  of  the  brigands. 

Dimitri  answered,  "  She  says  that  she  is  English. '' 

*^So  much  the  better!  All  the  English  are  rich.  Tell  her  to 
do  as  you  have  done.'' 

The  poor  lady  emptied  on  the  sand  a  purse,  which  contained 
twelve  sovereigns.  As  her  watch  was  not  in  sight,  and  as  they 
made  no  show  of  searching  us,  she  kept  it.  The  clemency  of  the 
conquerors  left  her  her  pocket-handkerchief. 

Mary  Ann  threw  down  her  watch,  with  a  whole  bunch  of 
charms  against  the  evil  eye.  She  cast  before  her,  by  a  movement 
full  of  mute  grace,  a  shagreen  bag,  which  she  carried  in  her  belt. 
The    brigand    opened    it    with    the    eagerness    of    a    custom-house 


EDMOND  ABOUT  ^9 

officer.  He  drew  from  it  a  little  English  dressing-case,  a  vial  of 
English  salts,  a  box  of  pastilles  of  English  mint,  and  a  hundred 
and  some  odd  francs  in  English  money. 

*^  Now,  '^  said  the  impatient  beauty,  ^*  you  can  let  us  go :  we 
have  nothing  more  for  you.**  They  indicated  to  her,  by  a  men- 
acing gesture,  that  the  session  was  not  ended.  The  chief  of  the 
band  squatted  down  before  our  spoils,  called  "the  good  old  man,* 
counted  the  money  in  his  presence,  and  delivered  to  him  the  sum 
of  forty-five  francs.  Mrs.  Simons  nudged  me  on  the  elbow.  "You 
see,"  said  she,  "the  monk  and  Dimitri  have  betrayed  us:  he  is 
dividing  the  spoils  with  them.* 

"  No,  madam,  *  replied  I,  immediately.  "  Dimitri  has  received 
a  mere  pittance  from  that  which  they  had  stolen  from  him.  It  is 
a  thing  which  is  done  everywhere.  On  the  banks  of  the  Rhine, 
when  a  traveler  is  ruined  at  roulette,  the  conductor  of  the  game 
gives  him  something  wherewith  to  return  home.* 

«  But  the  monk  ?  * 

"  He  has  received  a  tenth  part  of  the  booty  in  virtue  of  an 
immemorial  custom.  Do  not  reproach  him,  but  rather  be  thank- 
ful to  him  for  having  wished  to  save  us,  when  his  convent  was 
interested  in  our  capture.* 

This  discussion  was  interrupted  by  the  farewells  of  Dimitri. 
They  had  just  set  him  at  liberty. 

"Wait  for  me,*  said  I  to  him:  "we  will  return  together.*  He 
shook  his  head  sadly,  and  answered  me  in  English,  so  as  to  be 
understood  by  the  ladies:  — 

"You  are  prisoners  for  some  days,  and  you  will  not  see  Ath- 
ens again  before  paying  a  ransom.  I  am  going  to  inform  the 
milord.     Have  these  ladies  any  messages  to  give  me  for  him  ?  * 

"Tell  him,*  cried  Mrs.  Simons,  "to  run  to  the  embassy,  to 
go  then  to  the  Piraeus  and  find  the  admiral,  to  complain  at  the 
foreign  office,  to  write  to  Lord  Palmerston!  They  shall  take  us 
away  from  here  by  force  of  arms,  or  by  public  authority,  but  I 
do  not  intend  that  they  shall  disburse  a  penny  for  my  liberty.* 

"As  for  me,*  replied  I,  without  so  much  passion,  "I  beg  you 
to  tell  my  friends  in  what  hands  you  have  left  me.  If  some  hun- 
dreds of  drachms  are  necessary  to  ransom  a  poor  devil  of  a  nat- 
uralist, they  will  find  them  without  trouble.  These  gentlemen  of 
the  highway  cannot  rate  me  very  high.  I  have  a  mind,  while 
you  are  still  here,  to  ask  them  what  I  am  worth  at  the  lowest 
price.  * 


40 


EDMOND  ABOUT 


^^  It  would  be  useless,  my  dear  Mr,   Hermann !      It  is  not   they 
who  fix  the  figures  of  your  ransom.** 
"And  who  then  ?  » 
*<  Their  chief,   Hadgi-Stavros. » 


HADGI-STAVROS 
From  <The  King  of  the  Mountains  > 

THE  camp  of  the  King  was  a  plateau,  covering  a  surface  of 
seven  or  eight  hundred  metres.  I  looked  in  vain  for  the 
tents  of  our  conquerors.  The  brigands  are  not  sybarites, 
and  they  sleep  under  the  open  sky  on  the  30th  of  April.  I  saw 
neither  spoils  heaped  up  nor  treasures  displayed,  nor  any  of  those 
things  which  one  expects  to  find  at  the  headquarters  of  a  band 
of  robbers.  Hadgi-Stavros  makes  it  his  business  to  have  the 
booty  sold  ;  every  man  receives  his  pay  in  money,  and  employs  it 
as  he  chooses.  Some  make  investments  in  commerce,  others  take 
mortgages  on  houses  in  Athens,  others  buy  land  in  their  villages ; 
no  one  squanders  the  products  of  robbery.  Our  arrival  inter- 
rupted the  breakfast  of  twenty-five  or  thirty  men,  who  flocked 
around  us  with  their  bread  and  cheese.  The  chief  supports  his 
soldiers;  there  is  distributed  to  them  every  day  one  ration  of 
bread,  oil,  wine,  cheese,  caviare,  allspice,  bitter  olives,  and  meat 
when  their  religion  permits  it.  The  epicures  who  wish  to  eat 
mallows  or  other  herbs  are  at  liberty  to  gather  delicacies  in  the 
mountains. 

The  office  of  the  King  was  as  much  like  an  office  as  the  camp 
of  the  robbers  was  like  a  camp.  Neither  tables  nor  chairs  nor 
movables  of  any  sort  were  to  be  seen  there.  Hadgi-Stavros  was 
seated  cross-legged  on  a  square  carpet  in  the  shade  of  a  fir-tree. 
Four  secretaries  and  two  servants  were  grouped  around  him.  A 
boy  of  sixteen  or  eighteen  was  occupied  incessantly  in  filling, 
lighting,  and  cleaning  the  chibouk  of  his  master.  He  carried  in 
his  belt  a  tobacco-pouch,  embroidered  with  gold  and  fine  mother- 
of-pearl,  and  a  pair  of  silver  pincers  intended  for  taking  up  coals. 
Another  servant  passed  the  day  in  preparing  cups  of  coffee, 
glasses  of  water,  and  sweetmeats  to  refresh  the  royal  mouth.  The 
secretaries,  seated  on  the  bare  rock,  wrote  on  their  knees,  with 
pens  made  of  reeds.  Each  of  them  had  at  hand  a  long  copper 
box  containing  reeds,  penknife,  and  inkhorn.     Some  tin  cylinders, 


EDMOND  ABOUT  4 1 

like  those  in  which  our  soldiers  roll  up  their  discharges,  served 
as  a  depository  for  the  archives.  The  paper  was  not  of  native 
manufacture,  and  for  a  good  reason.  Every  leaf  bore  the  word 
BATH  in  capital  letters. 

The  King  was  a  fine  old  man,  marvelously  well  preserved, 
straight,  slim,  supple  as  a  spring,  spruce  and  shining  as  a  new 
sabre.  His  long  white  moustachios  hung  under  his  chin  like  two 
marble  stalactites.  The  rest  of  his  face  was  carefully  shaved,  the 
skull  bare  even  to  the  occiput,  where  a  long  tress  of  white  hair 
was  rolled  up  under  his  hat.  The  expression  of  his  features  ap- 
peared to  me  calm  and  thoughtful.  A  pair  of  small,  clear  blue 
eyes  and  a  square  chin  announced  an  indomitable  will.  His  face 
was  long,  and  the  position  of  the  wrinkles  lengthened  it  still  more. 
All  the  creases  of  the  forehead  were  broken  in  the  middle,  and 
seemed  to  direct  themselves  toward  the  meeting  of  the  eyebrows ; 
two  wide  and  deep  furrows  descended  perpendicularly  to  the 
comers  of  the  lips,  as  if  the  weight  of  the  moustachios  had 
drawn  in  the  muscles  of  the  face. 

I  have  seen  a  good  many  septuagenarians  ;  I  have  even  dis- 
sected one  who  would  have  reached  a  hundred  years,  if  the  dili- 
gence of  Osnabriick  had  not  passed  over  his  body  :  but  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  observed  a  more  green  and  robust  old  age 
than  that  of  Hadgi-Stavros.  He  wore  the  dress  of  Tino  and  of 
all  the  islands  of  the  Archipelago.  His  red  cap  formed  a  large 
crease  at  its  base  around  his  forehead.  He  had  a  vest  of  black 
cloth,  faced  with  black  silk,  immense  blue  pantaloons  which  con- 
tained more  than  twenty  metres  of  cotton  cloth,  and  great  boots 
of  Russia  leather,  elastic  and  stout.  The  only  rich  thing  in  his 
costume  was  a  scarf  embroidered  with  gold  and  precious  stones, 
which  might  be  worth  two  or  three  thousand  francs.  It  inclosed 
in  its  folds  an  embroidered  cashmere  purse,  a  Damascus  sanjar 
in  a  silver  sheath,  a  long  pistol  mounted  in  gold  and  rubies,  and 
the  appropriate  baton. 

Quietly  seated  in  the  midst  of  his  employees,  Hadgi-Stavros 
moved  only  the  ends  of  his  fingers  and  his  lips;  the  lips  to  dic- 
tate his  correspondence,  the  fingers  to  count  the  beads  in  his 
chaplet.  It  was  one  of  those  beautiful  chaplets  of  milky  amber 
which  do  not  serve  to  number  prayers,  but  to  amuse  the  solemn 
idleness  of  the  Turk. 

He  raised  his  head  at  our  approach,  guessed  at  a  glance  the 
occurrence  which  had  brought  us  there,  and  said  to  us,  with  a 


42  EDMOND  ABOUT 

gravity  which  had  in  it  nothing  ironical,   «  You  are  welcome !     Be 
seated.  '* 

«Sir,»  cried  Mrs.  Simons,  «I  am  an  Englishwoman,  and  — » 
He  interrupted  the  discourse  by  making  his  tongue  smack  against 
the  teeth  of  his  upper  jaw  —  superb  teeth,  indeed!  « Presently, » 
said  he:  «I  am  occupied. »  He  uh,derstood  only  Greek,  and  Mrs. 
Simons  knew  only  English ;  but  th^  physiognomy  of  the  King  was 
so  speaking  that  the  good  lady  comprehended  easily  without  the 
aid  of  an  interpreter. 

Selections  from  <The  King  of  the  Mountains  >  used  by  permission  of 
J.  E.  Tilton  and  Company 


THE  VICTIM 

From  <The  Man  with  the    Broken    Ear>:     by   permission  of    Henry  Holt,  the 

Translator 

L^ON  took  his  bunch  of  keys  and  opened  the  long  oak  box  on 
which  he  had  been  seated.  The  lid  being  raised,  they  saw 
a  g^eat  leaden  casket  which  inclosed  a  magnificent  walnut 
box  carefully  polished  on  the  outside,  lined  on  the  inside  with 
white  silk,  and  padded. 

The  others  brought  their  lamps  and  candles  near,  and  the 
colonel  of  the  Twenty-third  of  the  line  appeared  as  if  he  were  in 
a  chapel  illuminated  for  his  lying  in  state. 

One  would  have  said  that  the  man  was  asleep.  The  perfect 
preservation  of  the  body  attested  the  paternal  care  of  the  mur- 
derer. It  was  truly  a  remarkable  preparation,  and  would  have 
borne  comparison  with  the  finest  European  mummies  described  by 
Vicq  d'Azyr  in  1779,  and  by  the  younger  Puymaurin  in  1787.  The 
part  best  preserved,  as  is  always  the  case,  was  the  face.  All  the 
features  had  maintained  a  proud  and  manly  expression.  If  any 
old  friend  of  the  colonel  had  been  at  the  opening  of  the  third 
box,  he  would  have  recognized  him  at  first  sight.  Undoubtedly 
the  point  of  the  nose  was  a  little  sharper,  the  nostrils  less  ex' 
panded  and  thinner,  and  the  bridge  a  little  more  marked,  than  in 
the  year  181 3.  The  eyelids  were  thinned,  the  lips  pinched,  the 
comers  of  the  mouth  drawn  down,  the  cheek  bones  too  promi- 
nent, and  the  neck  visibly  shrunken,  which  exaggerated  the  prom- 
inence of  the  chin  and  larynx.  But  the  eyelids  were  closed  with- 
out contraction,  and  the  sockets  much  less  hollow  than  one  could 
have  expected;  the  mouth  was  not  at  all  distorted,  like  the  mouth 


EDMOND  ABOUT 


43 


of  a  corpse;  the  skin  was  slightly  wrinkled,  but  had  not  changed 
color, — it  had  only  become  a  little  more  transparent,  showing 
after  a  fashion  the  color  of  the  tendons,  the  fat,  and  the  muscles, 
wherever  it  rested  directly  upon  them.  It  also  had  a  rosy  tint 
which  is  not  ordinarily  seen  in  embalmed  corpses.  Dr.  Martout 
explained  this  anomaly  by  saying  that  if  the  colonel  had  actually 
been  dried  alive,  the  globules  of  the  blood  were  not  decomposed, 
but  simply  collected  in  the  capillary  vessels  of  the  skin  and  sub- 
jacent tissues,  where  they  still  preserved  their  proper  color,  and 
could  be  seen  more  easily  than  otherwise  on  account  of  the  semi- 
transparency  of  the  skin. 

The  uniform  had  become  much  too  large,  as  may  be  readily 
understood,  though  it  did  not  seem  at  a  casual  glance  that  the 
members  had  become  deformed.  The  hands  were  dry  and  angu- 
lar, but  the  nails,  although  a  little  bent  inward  toward  the  root, 
had  preserved  all  their  freshness.  The  only  very  noticeable 
change  was  the  excessive  depression  of  the  abdominal  walls,  which 
seemed  crowded  downward  to  the  posterior  side;  at  the  right,  a 
slight  elevation  indicated  the  place  of  the  liver.  A  tap  of  the 
finger  on  the  various  parts  of  the  body  produced  a  sound  like 
that  from  dry  leather.  While  Leon  was  pointing  out  these  details 
to  his  audience  and  doing  the  honors  of  his  mummy,  he  awk- 
wardly broke  off  the  lower  part  of  the  right  ear,  and  a  little 
piece  of  the  colonel  remained  in  his  hand.  This  trifling  accident 
might  have  passed  unnoticed  had  not  Clementine,  who  followed 
with  visible  emotion  all  the  movements  of  her  lover,  dropped  her 
candle  and  uttered  a  cry  of  affright.  All  gathered  around  her. 
Leon  took  her  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  to  a  chair.  M.  Re- 
nault ran  after  salts.  She  was  as  pale  as  death,  and  seemed  on 
the  point  of  fainting.  She  soon  recovered,  however,  and  reas- 
sured them  all  by  a  charming  smile. 

^^ Pardon  me,^^  she  said,  "for  such  a  ridiculous  exhibition  of 
terror;  but  what  Monsieur  L^on  was  saying  to  us  —  and  then—- 
that  figure  which  seemed  sleeping  —  it  appeared  to  me  that  the 
poor  man  was  going  to  open  his  mouth  and  cry  out,  when  he 
was  injured.  ^^ 

Leon  hastened  to  close  the  walnut  box,  while  M.  Martout 
picked  up  the  piece  of  ear  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  But  Cle- 
mentine, while  continuing  to  smile  and  make  apologies,  was 
overcome  by  a  fresh  access  of  emotion  and  melted  into  tears. 
The    engineer   threw  himself   at    her   feet,  poured    forth    excuses 


44 


EDMOND   ABOUT 


and  tender  phrases,  and  did  all  he  could  to  console  her  inexpli- 
cable grief. 

Clementine  dried  her  eyes,  looked  prettier  than  ever,  and 
sighed   fit  to  break  her  heart,  without  knowing  why. 

**  Beast  that  I  am !  '*  muttered  Leon,  tearing  his  hair.  ^*  On  the 
day  when  I  see  her  again  after  three  years'  absence,  I  can  think 
of  nothing  more  soul-inspiring  than  showing  her  mummies  !^^  He 
launched  a  kick  at  the  triple  coffin  of  the  colonel,  saying,  ^^  I  wish 
the  devil  had  the  confounded  colonel !  " 

"No!'*  cried  Clementine,  with  redoubled  energy  and  emotion. 
"Do  not  curse  him.  Monsieur  L^on!  He  has  suffered  so  much! 
Ah !  poor,  poor,  unfortunate  man !  '* 

Mile.  Sambucco  felt  a  little  ashamed.  She  made  excuses  for 
her  niece,  and  declared  that  never,  since  her  tenderest  childhood, 
had  she  manifested  such  extreme  sensitiveness.     .     .     . 

"This  will  teach  us,**  said  the  aunt,  "what  staying  up  after 
ten  o'clock  does.  What!  it  is  midnight,  within  a  quarter  of  an 
hour!  Come,  my  child;  you  will  recover  fast  enough  after  you 
get  to  bed.** 

Clementine  arose  submissively;  but  at  the  moment  of  leaving 
the  laboratory  she  retraced  her  steps,  and  with  a  caprice  more 
inexplicable  than  her  grief,  she  absolutely  demanded  to  see  the 
mummy  of  the  colonel  again.  Her  aunt  scolded  in  vain;  in  spite 
of  the  remarks  of  Mile.  Sambucco  and  all  the  others  present,  she 
reopened  the  walnut  box,  knelt  down  beside  the  mummy  and 
kissed  it  on  the  forehead. 

"Poor  man!**  said  she,  rising.  "How  cold  he  is!  Monsieur 
L^on,  promise  me  that  if  he  is  dead  you  will  have  him  laid  in 
consecrated  ground!** 

"As  you  please,  mademoiselle.  I  intended  to  send  him  to  the 
anthropological  museum,  with  my  father's  permission;  but  you 
know  that  we  can  refuse  you  nothing.** 


THE   MAN   WITHOUT  A   COUNTRY 

From  <The  Man  with  the  Broken  Ear>:  by  permission  of  Henry  Holt,  the 

Translator 

FORTHWITH  the  colonel  marched  and  opened  the  windows  with 
a  precipitation  which  upset  the  gazers  among  the  crowd. 
"People,**  said  he,  "I  have  knocked  down  a  hundred  beggarly 
pandours,  who  respect  neither  sex  nor  infirmity.     For  the  benefit 


EDMOND   ABOUT 


45 


of   those   who   are   not   satisfied,  I    will    state    that   I    call   myself 
Colonel  Fougas  of  the  Twenty-third.      A.nd  Vive  VEmpe'reur !  '^ 

A  confused  mixture  of  plaudits,  cries,  laughs,  and  jeers  an- 
swered this  unprecedented  allocution.  L^on  Renault  hastened  out 
to  make  apologies  to  all  to  whom  they  were  due.  He  invited  a 
few  friends  to  dine  the  same  evening  with  the  terrible  colonel, 
and  of  course  he  did  not  forget  to  send  a  special  messenger  to 
Clementine.  Fougas,  after  speaking  to  the  people,  returned  to  his 
hosts,  swinging  himself  along  with  a  swaggering  air,  set  himself 
astride  a  chair,  took  hold  of  the  ends  of  his  mustache,  and  said:  — 

^^Well!     Come,  let's  talk  this  over.     I've  been  sick,  then?*^ 

"Very  sick.** 

"That's  incredible!  I  feel  entirely  well;  I'm  hungry;  and  more- 
over, while  waiting  for  dinner  I'll  try  a  glass  of  your  schnick.'* 

Mme.  Renault  went  out,  gave  an  order,  and  returned  in  an 
instant. 

"  But  tell  me,  then,  where  I  am  ?  **  resumed  the  colonel.  "  By 
these  paraphernalia  of  work,  I  recognize  a  disciple  of  Urania;  pos- 
sibly a  friend  of  Monge  and  Berthollet.  Biit  the  cordial  friendli- 
ness impressed  on  your  countenances  proves  to  me  that  you  are 
not  natives  of  this  land  of  sauerkraut.  Yes,  I  believe  it  from  the 
beatings  of  my  heart.  Friends,  we  have  the  same  fatherland. 
The  kindness  of  your  reception,  even  were  there  no  other  indica- 
tions, would  have  satisfied  me  that  you  are  French.  What  acci- 
dents have  brought  you  so  far  from  our  native  soil  ?  Children  of 
my  country,  what  tempest  has  thrown  you  upon  this  inhospitable 
shore  ? " 

"My  dear  colonel,**  replied  M.  Nibor,  "if  you  want  to  become 
very  wise,  you  will  not  ask  so  many  questions  at  once.  Allow  us 
the  pleasure  of  instructing  you  quietly  and  in  order,  for  you  have 
a  great  many  things  to  learn.** 

The  colonel  flushed  with  anger,  and  answered  sharply:  — 

"At  all  events,  you  are  not  the  man  to  teach  them  to  me,  my 
little  gentleman !  ** 

A  drop  of  blood  which  fell  on  his  hand  changed  the  current  of 
his  thoughts. 

"  Hold  on !  **  said  he :  "  am  I  bleeding  1  ** 
•  "That  will    amount   to   nothing:    circulation    is    re-established, 
and  —  and  your  broken  ear — ** 

He  quickly  carried  his  hand  to  his  ear,  and  said:  — 

"It's  certainly  so.  But  devil  take  me  if  I  recollect  this  acci- 
dent!** 


46 


EDMOND  ABOUT 


^^  I'll  make  you  a  little  dressing,  and  in  a  couple  of  days  there 
will  be  no  trace  of  it  left." 

*  Don't  give  yourself  the  trouble,  my  dear  Hippocrates :  a  pinch 
of  powder  is  a  sovereign  cure ! " 

M.  Nibor  set  to  work  to  dress  the  ear  in  a  little  less  military 
fashion.     During  his  operations  L^on  re-entered. 

^* Ah !  ah !  "  said  he  to  the  doctor :  *^  you  are  repairing  the  harm 
I  did.» 

"  Thunderation !  *  cried  Fougas,  escaping  from  the  hands  of 
M.  Nibor  so  as  to  seize  L^on  by  the  collar,  <^was  it  you,  you 
rascal,  that  hurt  my  ear  ? " 

L6on  was  very  good-natured,  but  his  patience  failed  him.  He 
pushed  his  man  roughly  aside. 

^^  Yes,  sir :  it  was  I  who  tore  your  ear,  in  pulling  it ;  and  if 
that  little  misfortune  had  not  happened  to  me,  it  is  certain  that 
you  would  have  been  to-day  six  feet  under  ground.  It  is  I  who 
saved  your  life,  after  buying  you  with  my  money  when  you  were 
not  valued  at  over  twenty-five  louis.  It  is  I  who  have  passed 
three  days  and  two  nights  in  cramming  charcoal  under  your 
boiler.  It  is  my  father  who  gave  you  the  clothes  you  have  on. 
You  are  in  our  house.  Drink  the  little  glass  of  brandy  Gothon 
just  brought  you;  but  for  God's  sake  give  up  the  habit  of  calling 
me  rascal,  of  calling  my  mother  *Good  Mother,  >  and  of  flinging 
our  friends  into  the  street  and  calling  them  beggarly  pandours ! " 

The  colonel,  all  dumfounded,  held  out  his  hand  to  Leon,  M. 
Renault,  and  the  doctor,  gallantly  kissed  the  hand  of  Mme, 
Renault,  swallowed  at  a  gulp  a  claret  glass  filled  to  the  brim 
with  brandy,   and  said,  in  a  subdued  voice:  — 

**  Most  excellent  friends,  forget  the  vagaries  of  an  impulsive 
but  generous  soul.  To  subdue  my  passions  shall  hereafter  be 
my  law.  After  conquering  all  the  nations  in  the  universe,  it  is 
well  to  conquer  one's  self.** 

This  said,  he  submitted  his  ear  to  M.  Nibor,  who  finished 
dressing  it. 

^^But,**  said  he,  summoning  up  his  recollections,  "they  did  not 
shoot  me,  then?" 

«No.» 

**  And  I  wasn't  frozen  to  death  in  the  tower? " 

«Not  quite. » 

"Why  has  my  uniform  been  t^aken  off?  I  see!  I  am  a  pris- 
oner !  " 


EDMOND  ABOUT 


47 


**  You  are  free,  * 

*^Free!  Vive  VEmp^reur!  But  then  there's  not  a  moment  to 
lose !     How  many  leagues  is  it  to  Dantzic  ?  * 

"  It's  very  far.  '^ 

^*  What  do  you  call  this  chicken-coop  of  a  town  ? " 

*  Fontainebleau.  * 

*<  Fontainebleau !     In  France  ? '' 

^*  Prefecture  of  Seine-et-Marne.  We  are  going  to  introduce  to 
you  the  sub-prefect,  whom  you  just  pitched  into  the  street.*^ 

^^  What  the  devil  are  your  sub-prefects  to  me  ?  I  have  a  mes- 
sage from  the  Emperor  to  General  Rapp,  and  I  must  start  this 
very  day  for  Dantzic.     God  knows  whether  I'll  be  there  in  time!" 

^*  My  poor  colonel,  you  will  arrive  too  late :  Dantzic  is  given 
up.» 

"  That's  impossible !     Since  when  ?  * 

** About  forty-six  years  ago." 

"  Thunder !  I  did  not  understand  that  you  were  —  mocking 
me!» 

M.  Nibor  placed  in  his  hand  a  calendar,  and  said,  ^^  See  for 
yourself!  It  is  now  the  17th  of  August,  1859;  you  went  to  sleep 
in  the  tower  of  Liebenfeld  on  the  nth  of  November,  1813:  there 
have  been,  then,  forty-six  years,  within  three  months,  during 
which  the  world  has  moved  on  without  you." 

"  Twenty-four  and  forty-six :  but  then  I  would  be  seventy 
years  old,  according  to  your  statement!" 

*^Your  vitality  clearly  shows  that   you  are  still  twenty-four." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  tore  up  the  calendar,  and  said, 
beating   the   floor  with  his  foot,  **  Your   almanac  is  a  humbug !  *? 

M.  Renault  ran  to  his  library,  took  up  half  a  dozen  books  at 
Haphazard,  and  made  him  read,  at  the  foot  of  the  title-pages,  the 
dates  1826,  1833,  1847,  and  1858. 

« Pardon  me!"  said  Fougas,  burying  his  head  in  his  hands. 
<*What  has  happened  to  me  is  so  new!  I  do  not  think  that 
another  human  being  was  ever  subjected  to  such  a  trial,  I  am 
seventy  years  old!" 

Good  Mme.  Renault  went  and  got  a  looking-glass  from  the 
bath-room  and  gave  it  to  him,  saying:  — 

«Look!" 

He  took  the  glass  in  both  hands  and  was  silently  occupied  in 
resuming  acquaintance  with  himself,  when  a  hand-organ  came 
into  the  court  and  began  playing  *  Partant  pour  la  Syrie.  * 


48  EDMOND   ABOUT 

Fougas  threw  the  mirror  to  the  ground,  and  cried  out;  — 

*^  What  is.  that  you  are  telling  me  ?  I  hear  the  little  song  of 
Queen  Hortense !  ** 

M.  Renault  patiently  explained  to  him,  while  picking  up  the 
pieces  of  the  mirror,  that  the  pretty  little  song  of  Queen  Hor- 
tense had  become  a  national  air,  and  even  an  official  one,  since 
the  regimental  bands  had  substituted  that  gentle  melody  for  the 
fierce  *  Marseillaise  ^ ;  and  that  our  soldiers,  strange  to  say,  had 
not  fought  any  the  worse  for  it.  But  the  colonel  had  already 
opened  the  window,  and  was  crying  out  to  the  Savoyard  with  the 
organ :  — 

**  Eh !  Friend !  A  napoleon  for  you  if  you  will  tell  me  in 
what  year  I  am  drawing  the  breath  of  life ! " 

The  artist  began  dancing  as  lightly  as  possible,  playing  on  his 
musical  instrument. 

^^  Advance  at  the  order !  '*  cried  the  colonel,  "  and  keep  that 
devilish  machine  still !  * 

"  A  little  penny,  my  good  monsieur !  * 

"  It  is  not  a  penny  that  I'll  give  you,  but  a  napoleon,  if  you'll 
tell  what  year  it  is.'* 

«Oh,  but  that's  funny!     Hi— hi— hi! » 

*And  if  you  don't  tell  me  quicker  than  this  amounts  to,  I'll 
cut  your  ears  off !  '* 

The  Savoyard  ran  away,  but  he  came  back  pretty  soon,  having 
meditated,  during  his  flight,  on  the  maxim  *^  Nothing  risk,  noth« 
ing  gain.'' 

^'  Monsieur, "  said  he,  in  a  wheedling  voice,  "  this  is  the  year 
eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-nine." 

"  Good ! "  cried  Fougas.  He  felt  in  his  pockets  for  money,  and 
found  nothing  there.  L6on  saw  his  predicament,  and  flung  twenty 
francs  into  the  court.  Before  shutting  the  window,  he  pointed 
out,  to  the  right,  the  fagade  of  a  pretty  little  new  building,  where 
the  colonel  could  distinctly  read:  — 

AUDRET  ARCHITECTE 
MDCCCLIX 

A  perfectly  satisfactory  piece  of  evidence,  and  one  which  did 
not  cost  twenty  francs. 

Fougas,  a  little  confused,  pressed  Leon's  hand  and  said  to 
him ;  — 


EDMOND    ABOUT  49 

«  My  friend,  I  do  not  forget  that  Confidence  is  the  first  duty 
from  Gratitude  toward  Beneficence.  But  tell  me  of  our  country! 
I  tread  the  sacred  soil  where  I  received  my  being,  and  I  am 
ignorant  of  the  career  of  my  native  land.  France  is  still  the 
queen  of  the  world,  is  she  not  ?  * 

"Certainly,'*  said  Leon. 

*  How  is  the  Emperor  ?  * 

«Well.» 

"And  the  Empress?" 

«Very  welL» 

«  And  the  King  of  Rome  ?  * 

«  The  Prince  Imperial  ?     He  is  a  very  fine  child,  * 

«  How  ?  A  fine  child !  And  you  have  the  face  to  say  that  this 
is  1859 !» 

M.  Nibor  took  up  the  conversation,  and  explained  in  a  few 
words  that  the  reigning  sovereigfn  of  France  was  not  Napoleon  I., 
but  Napoleon  III. 

"  But  then,  **  cried  Fougas,  "  my  Emperor  is  dead !  * 

«Yes.» 

"Impossible!  Tell  me  anything  you  will  but  that!  My  Em- 
peror is  immortal.* 

M.  Nibor  and  the  Renaults,  who  were  not  quite  professional 
historians,  were  obliged  to  give  him  a  summary  of  the  history  of 
our  century.  Some  one  went  after  a  big  book,  written  by  M.  de 
Norvins  and  illustrated  with  fine  eng^ravings  by  Raffet.  He  only 
believed  in  the  presence  of  Truth  when  he  could  touch  her  with 
his  hand,  and  still  cried  out  almost  every  moment,  "That's  im- 
possible! This  is  not  history  that  you  are  reading  to  me:  it  is  a 
romance  written  to  make  soldiers  weep !  * 

This  young  man  must  indeed  have  had  a  strong  and  well-tem- 
pered soul;  for  he  learned  in  forty  minutes  all  the  woful  events 
which  fortune  had  scattered  through  eighteen  years,  from  the  first 
abdication  up  to  the  death  of  the  King  of  Rome.  Less  happy 
than  his  old  companions  in  arms,  he  had  no  interval  of  repose 
between  these  terrible  and  repeated  shocks,  all  beating  upon  his 
heart  at  the  same  time.  One  could  have  feared  that  the  blow 
might  prove  mortal,  and  poor  Fougas  die  in  the  first  hour  of  his 
recovered  life.  But  the  imp  of  a  fellow  yielded  and  recovered 
himself  in  quick  succession  like  a  spring.  He  cried  out  with 
admiration  on  hearing  of  the  five  battles  of  the  campaign  in 
France;  he  reddened  with  grief  at  the  farewells  of  Fontainebleau. 
1—4 


5° 


EDMOND  ABOUT 


The  return  from  the  Isle  of  Elba  transfigured  his  handsome  and 
noble  countenance;  at  Waterloo  his  heart  rushed  in  with  the  last 
army  of  the  Empire,  and  there  shattered  itself.  Then  he  clenched 
his  fists  and  said  between  his  teeth,  "If  I  had  been  there  at  the 
head  of  the  Twenty- Third,  Bliicher  and  Wellington  would  have 
seen  another  fate !  *  The  invasion,  the  truce,  the  martyr  of  St. 
Helena,  the  ghastly  terror  of  Europe,  the  murder  of  Murat, —  the 
idol  of  the  cavalry, —  the  deaths  of  Ney,  Bruno,  Mouton-Duvernet, 
and  so  many  other  whole-souled  men  whom  he  had  known,  ad- 
mire's,  and  loved,  threw  him  into  a  series  of  paroxysms  of  rage; 
but  nothing  crushed  him.  In  hearing  of  the  death  of  Napoleon, 
he  swore  that  he  would  eat  the  heart  of  England;  the  slow  agony 
of  the  pale  and  interesting  heir  of  the  Empire  inspired  him  with 
a  passion  to  tear  the  vitals  out  of  Austria.  When  the  drama  was 
over,  and  the  curtain  fell  on  Schonbrunn,  he  dashed  away  his 
tears  and  said,  "It  is  well.  I  have  lived  in  a  moment  a  man's 
entire  life.     Now  show  me  the  map  of  France !  ** 

L^on  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  an  atlas,  while  M. 
Renault  attempted  to  continue  narrating  to  the  colonel  the  history 
of  the  Restoration,  and  of  the  monarchy  of  1830.  But  Fougas's 
interest  was  in  other  things. 

"  What  do  I  care,  '^  said  he,  "  if  a  couple  of  hundred  babblers 
of  deputies  put  one  king  in  place  of  another?  Kings!  I've  seen 
enough  of  them  in  the  dirt.  If  the  Empire  had  lasted  ten  years 
longer,  I  could  have  had  a  king  for  a  bootblack.'* 

When  the  atlas  was  placed  before  him,  he  at  once  cried  out 
with  profound  disdain,  "  That  France  ?  **  But  soon  two  tears  of 
pitying  affection,  escaping  from  his  eyes,  swelled  the  rivers 
Ardeche  and  Gironde.  He  kissed  the  map  and  said,  with  an 
emotion  which  communicated  itself  to  nearly  all  those  who  were 
present :  — 

"Forgive  me,  poor  old  love,  for  insulting  your  misfortunes. 
Those  scoundrels  whom  we  always  whipped  have  profited  by  my 
sleep  to  pare  down  your  frontiers;  but  little  or  great,  rich  or  poor, 
you  are  my  mother,  and  I  love  you  as  a  faithful  son!  Here  is 
Corsica,  where  the  giant  of  our  age  was  bom;  here  is  Toulouse, 
where  I  first  saw  the  light;  here  is  Nancy,  where  I  felt  my  heart 
awakened  —  where,  perhaps,  she  whom  I  call  my  ^gle  waits  for 
me  still!  France!  Thou  hast  a  temple  in  my  soul;  this  arm  is 
thine;  thou  shalt  find  me  ever  ready  to  shed  my  blood  to  the  last 
drop  in  defending  or  avenging  thee!'* 


5« 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN     AND     ASSYRIAN     LITER- 
ATURE 

BY  CRAWFORD    H.    TOY 

[ecent  discoveries  have  carried  the  beginnings  of  civilization 
farther  and  farther  back  into  the  remote  past.  Scholars  are 
not  agreed  as  to  what  region  can  lay  claim  to  the  greatest 
literary  antiquity.  The  oldest  historical  records  are  found  in  Egypt 
and  Babylonia,  and  each  of  these  lands  has  its  advocates,  who  claim, 
for  it  priority  in  culture.  The  data  now  at  our  command  are  not  suf- 
ficient for  the  decision  of  this  question.  It  may  be  doubted  whether 
any  one  spot  on  the  globe  will  ever  be  shown  to  have  precedence  in 
time  over  all  others,  —  whether,  that  is,  it  will  appear  that  the  civili- 
zation of  the  world  has  proceeded  from  a  single  centre.  But  though 
we  are  yet  far  from  having  reached  the  very  beginnings  of  culture, 
we  know  that  they  lie  farther  back  than  the  wildest  dreams  of  half  a 
century  ago  would  have  imagined.  Established  kingdoms  existed  in 
Babylonia  in  the  fourth  millennium  before  the  beg^inning  of  our  era; 
royal  inscriptions  have  been  found  which  are  with  great  probability 
assigned  to  about  the  year  3800  B.  C.  These  are,  it  is  true,  of  the 
simplest  description,  consisting  of  a  few  sentences  of  praise  to  a  deity 
or  brief  notices  of  a  campaign  or  of  the  building  of  a  temple;  but 
they  show  that  the  art  of  writing  was  known,  and  that  the  custom 
existed  of  recording  events  of  the  national  history.  We  may  thence 
infer  the  existence  of  a  settled  civilization  and  of  some  sort  of  literary 
productiveness. 

The  Babylonian-Assyrian  writings  with  which  we  are  acquainted 
may  be  divided  into  the  two  classes  of  prose  and  poetry.  The  former 
class  consists  of  royal  inscriptions  (relating  to  military  campaigns  and 
,the  construction  of  temples),  chronological  tables  (eponym  canons), 
legal  documents  (sales,  suits,  etc.),  grammatical  tables  (paradigms  and 
vocabularies),  lists  of  omens  and  lucky  and  unlucky  days,  and  letters 
and  reports  passing  between  kings  and  governors;  the  latter  class 
includes  cosmogonic  poems,  an  epic  poem  in  twelve  books,  detached 
mythical  narratives,  magic  formulas  and  incantations,  and  prayers  to 
deities  (belonging  to  the  ritual  service  of  the  temples).  The  prose 
pieces,  with  scarcely  an  exception,  belong  to  the  historical  period,  and 
may  be  dated  with  something  like  accuracy.  The  same  thing  is  true 
of  a  part  of  the   poetical  material,  particularly  the  prayers;   but  the 


52  ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN   LITERATURE 

cosmogonic  and  other  mythical  poems  appear  to  go  back,  at  least  so 
far  as  their  material  is  concerned,  to  a  very  remote  antiquity,  and  it 
is  difficult  to  assign  them  a  definite  date. 

Whether  this  oldest  poetical  material  belongs  to  the  Semitic  Baby- 
lonians or  to  a  non-Semitic  (Sumerian-Accadian)  people  is  a  question 
not  yet  definitely  decided.  The  material  which  comes  into  consid- 
eration for  the  solution  of  this  problem  is  mainly  linguistic.  Along 
with  the  inscriptions,  which  are  obviously  in  the  Semitic-Babylonian 
language,  are  found  others  composed  of  words  apparently  strange. 
These  are  held  by  some  scholars  to  represent  a  priestly,  cryptographic 
writing,  by  others  to  be  true  Semitic  words  in  slightly  altered  form, 
and  by  others  still  to  belong  to  a  non-Semitic  tongue.  This  last  view 
supposes  that  the  ancient  poetry  comes,  in  substance  at  any  rate, 
from  a  non-Semitic  people  who  spoke  this  tongue;  while  on  the  other 
hand,  it  is  maintained  that  this  poetry  is  so  interwoven  into  Semitic 
life  that  it  is  impossible  to  regard  it  as  of  foreign  origin.  The 
majority  of  Semitic  scholars  are  now  of  the  opinion  that  the  origin 
of  this  early  literature  is  foreign.  However  this  may  be,  it  comes  to 
us  in  Babylonian  dress,  it  has  been  elaborated  by  Babylonian  hands, 
has  thence  found  its  way  into  the  literature  of  other  Semitic  peoples, 
and  for  our  purposes  may  be  accepted  as  Babylonian.  In  any  case  it 
carries  us  back  to  very  early  religious  conceptions. 

The  cosmogonic  poetry  is  in  its  outlines  not  unlike  that  of  Hesiod, 
but  develops  the  ruder  ideas  at  greater  length.  In  the  shortest  (but 
probably  not  the  earliest)  form  of  the  cosmogony,  the  beginning  of 
all  things  is  found  in  the  watery  abyss.  Two  abysmal  power? 
(Tiamat  and  Apsu),  represented  as  female  and  male,  mingle  their 
wate.s,  and  from  them  proceed  the  gods.  The  list  of  deities  (as  in 
the  Greek  cosmogony)  seems  to  represent  several  dynasties,  a  concep- 
tion which  may  embody  the  belief  in  the  gradual  organization  of  the 
world.  After  two  less-known  gods,  called  Lahmu  and  Lahamu,  come 
the  more  familiar  figures  of  later  Babylonian  writing,  Anu  and  Ea.  At 
this  point  the  list  unfortunately  breaks  off,  and  the  creative  function 
which  may  have  been  assigned  to  the  gods  is  lost,  or  has  not  yet 
been  discovered.  The  general  similarity  between  this  account  and 
that  of  Gen.  i.  is  obvious:  both  begin  with  the  abysmal  chaos.  Other 
agreements  between  the  two  cosmogonies  will  be  pointed  out  below. 
The  most  interesting  figure  in  this  fragment  is  that  of  Tiamat.  "We 
shall  presently  see  her  in  the  character  of  the  enemy  of  the  gods. 
The  two  conceptions  of  her  do  not  agree  together  perfectly,  and  the 
priority  in  time  must  be  assigned  to  the  latter.  The  idea  that  the 
world  of  gods  and  men  and  material  things  issued  out  of  the  womb 
of  the  abyss  is  a  philosophic  generalization  that  is  more  naturally 
assigned  to  a  period  of  reflection. 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN   AND   ASSYRIAN   LITERATURE 


53 


In  the  second  cosmogonic  poem  the  account  is  more  similar  to  that 
of  the  second  chapter  of  Genesis,  and  its  present  form  origfinated  in 
or  near  Babylon.  Here  we  have  nothing  of  the  primeval  deep,  but 
are  told  how  the  gods  made  a  beautiful  land,  with  rivers  and  trees; 
how  Babylon  was  built  and  Marduk  created  man,  and  the  Tigris  and 
the  Euphrates,  and  the  beasts  and  cities  and  temples.  This  also  must 
be  looked  on  as  a  comparatively  late  form  of  the  mjrth,  since  its  hero 
is  Marduk,  god  of  Babylon.  As  in  the  Bible  account,  men  are  created 
before  beasts,  and  the  region  of  their  first  abode  seems  to  be  the  same 
as  the  Eden  of  Genesis. 

Let  us  now  turn  to  the  poem  in  which  the  combat  between  Tiamat 
and  Marduk  forms  the  principal  feature.  For  some  unexplained 
reason  Tiamat  rebels  against  the  gods.  Collecting  her  hosts,  among 
them  frightful  demon  shapes  of  all  imaginable  forms,  she  advances 
for  the  purpose  of  expelling  the  gods  from  their  seats.  The  affrighted 
deities  turn  for  protection  to  the  high  gods,  Anu  and  Ea,  who,  how- 
ever, recoil  in  terror  from  the  hosts  of  the  dragon  Tiamat.  Anshar 
then  applies  to  Marduk.  The  gods  are  invited  to  a  feast,  the  situ- 
ation is  described,  and  Marduk  is  invited  to  lead  the  heavenly  hosts 
against  the  foe.  He  agrees  on  condition  that  he  shall  be  clothed 
with  absolute  power,  so  that  he  shall  only  have  to  say  *Let  it  be,* 
and  it  shall  be.  To  this  the  gods  assent:  a  garment  is  placed  before 
him,  to  which  he  says  "Vanish,*  and  it  vanishes,  and  when  he  com- 
mands it  to  appear,  it  is  present.  The  hero  then  dons  his  armor  and 
advances  against  the  enemy.  He  takes  Tiamat  and  slays  her,  routs 
her  host,  kills  her  consort  Kingu,  and  utterly  destroys  the  rebel- 
lion. Tiamat  he  cuts  in  twain.  Out  of  one  half  of  her  he  forms  the 
heavens,  out  of  the  other  half  the  earth,  and  for  the  gods  Anu  and 
Bel  and  Ea  he  makes  a  heavenly  palace,  like  the  abyss  itself  in 
extent.  To  the  great  gods  also  he  assigns  positions,  forms  the  stars, 
establishes  the  year  and  month  and  the  day.  At  this  point  the  his- 
tory is  interrupted,  the  tablet  being  broken.  The  creation  of  the 
heavenly  bodies  is  to  be  compared  with  the  similar  account  in 
Gen.  i. ;  whether  this  poem  narrates  the  creation  of  the  rest  of  the 
world  it  is  impossible  to  say. 

In  this  history  of  the  rebellion  of  Tiamat  against  the  gods  we  have 
a  mythical  picture  of  some  natural  phenomenon,  perhaps  of  the  con- 
flict between  the  winter  and  the  enlivening  sun  of  summer.  The 
poem  appears  to  contain  elements  of  different  dates.  The  rude  char- 
acter of  some  of  the  procedures  suggests  an  early  time:  Marduk  slays 
Tiamat  by  driving  the  wind  into  her  body;  the  warriors  who  accom- 
pany her  have  those  composite  forms  familiar  to  us  from  Babylo- 
nian and  Egyptian  statues,  paintings,  and  seals,  which  are  the  product 
of   that   early   thought   for   which   there   was   no   essential   difference 


54 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND   ASSYRIAN   LITERATURE 


between  man  and  beast.  The  festival  in  which  the  gods  carouse  is 
of  a  piece  with  the  divine  Ethiopian  feasts  of  Homer.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  idea  of  the  omnipotence  of  the  divine  word,  when  Marduk 
makes  the  garment  disappear  and  reappear,  is  scarcely  a  primitive 
one.  It  is  substantially  identical  with  the  Biblical  <^Let  it  be,  and  it 
was.*  It  is  probable  that  the  poem  had  a  long  career,  and  in  success- 
ive recensions  received  the  coloring  of  different  generations.  Tiamat 
herself  has  a  long  history.  Here  she  is  a  dragon  who  assaults  the 
gods;  elsewhere,  as  we  have  seen,  she  is  the  mother  of  the  gods; 
here  also  her  body  forms  the  heaven  and  the  earth.  She  appears  in 
Gen.  i.  2  as  the  Tehom,  the  primeval  abyss.  In  the  form  of  the 
hostile  dragon  she  is  found  in  numerous  passages  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, though  under  different  names.  She  is  an  enemy  of  Yahwe, 
god  of  Israel,  and  in  th*'.  New  Testament  (Rev.  xii.)  the  combat 
between  Marduk  and  Tiamat  is  represented  under  the  form  of  a  fight 
between  Michael  and  the  Dragon.  In  Christian  literature  Michael  has 
been  replaced  by  St.  George.  The  old  Babylonian  conception  has  been 
fruitful  of  poetry,  representing,  as  it  does,  in  grand  form  the  struggle 
between  the  chaotic  and  the  formative  forces  of  the  universe. 

The  most  considerable  of  the  old.  Babylonian  poems,  so  far  as 
length  and  literary  form  are  concerned,  is  that  which  has  been  com- 
monly known  as  the  Izdubar  epic.  The  form  of  the  name  is  not 
certain:  Mr.  Pinches  has  recently  proposed,  on  the  authority  of  a 
Babylonian  text,  to  write  it  Gilgamesh,  and  this  form  has  been 
adopted  by  a  number  of  scholars.  The  poem  (discovered  by  George 
Smith  in  1872)  is  inscribed  on  twelve  tablets,  each  tablet  apparently 
containing  a  separate  episode. 

The  first  tablet  introduces  the  hero  as  the  deliverer  of  his  country 
from  the  Elamites,  an  event  which  seems  to  have  taken  place  before 
2000  B.  C.  Of  the  second,  third,  fourth,  and  fifth  tablets,  only  frag- 
ments  exist,  but  it  appears  that  Gilgamesh  slays  the  Elamite  tyrant. 

The  sixth  tablet  recounts  the  love  of  Ishtar  for  the  hero,  to  whom 
she  proposes  marriage,  offering  him  the  tribute  of  the  land.  The 
reason  he  assigns  for  his  rejection  of  the  goddess  is  the  number  and 
fatal  character  of  her  loves.  Among  the  objects  of  her  affection  were 
a  wild  eagle,  a  lion,  a  war-horse,  a  ruler,  and  a  husbandman;  and  all 
these  came  to  grief.  Ishtar,  angry  at  her  rejection,  complains  to  her 
father,  Anu,  and  her  mother,  Anatu,  and  begs  them  to  avenge  her 
wrong.  Anu  creates  a  divine  bull  and  sends  it  against  Gilgamesh, 
who,  however,  with  the  aid  of  his  friend  Eabani,  slays  the  bull. 
Ishtar  curses  Gilgamesh,  but  Eabani  turns  the  curse  against  her. 

The  seventh  tablet  recounts  how  Ishtar  descends  to  the  underworld 
seeking  some  better  way  of  attacking  the  hero.  The  description  of 
the  Babylonian   Sheol  is  one  of  the  most    effective    portions  of  the 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN  LITERATURE 


55 


poem,  and  with  it  George  Smith  connects  a  well-known  poem  which 
relates  the  descent  of  Ishtar  to  the  underworld.  The  goddess  goes 
down  to  the  house  of  darkness  from  which  there  is  no  exit,  and 
demands  admittance  of  the  keeper;  who,  however,  by  command  of 
the  queen  of  the  lower  world,  requires  her  to  submit  to  the  condi- 
tions imposed  on  all  who  enter.  There  are  seven  gates,  at  each  of 
which  he  removes  some  portion  of  her  ornaments  and  dress.  Ishtar, 
thus  unclothed,  enters  and  becomes  a  prisoner.  Meantime  the  upper 
earth  has  felt  her  absence.  All  love  and  life  has  ceased.  Yielding 
to  the  persuasions  of  the  gods,  Ea  sends  a  messenger  to  demand 
the  release  of  the  goddess.  The  latter  passes  out,  receiving  at  each 
gate  a  portion  of  her  clothing.  This  story  of  Ishtar's  love  belongs  to 
one  of  the  earliest  stages  of  religious  belief.  Not  only  do  the  gods 
appear  as  under  the  control  of  ordinary  human  passions,  but  there  is 
no  consciousness  of  material  difference  between  man  and  beast.  The 
Greek  parallels  are  familiar  to  all.  Of  these  ideas  we  find  no  trace 
in  the  later  Babylonian  and  Assyrian  literature,  and  the  poem  was 
doubtless  interpreted  by  the   Babylonian  sages  in  allegorical  fashion. 

In  the  eighth  and  ninth  tablets  the  death  of  Eabani  is  recorded, 
and  the  grief  of  Gilgamesh.  The  latter  then  wanders  forth  in  search 
of  Hasisadra,  the  hero  of  the  Flood-story.  After  various  adventures 
he  reaches  the  abode  of  the  divinized  man,  and  from  him  learns  the 
story  of  the  Flood,  which  is  given  in  the  eleventh  tablet. 

This  story  is  almost  identical  with  that  of  the  Book  of  Genesis. 
The  God  Bel  is  determined  to  destroy  mankind,  and  Hasisadra 
receives  directions  from  Ea  to  build  a  ship,  and  take  into  it  provis- 
ions and  goods  and  slaves  and  beasts  of  the  field.  The  ship  is  cov- 
ered with  bitumen.  The  flood  is  sent  by  Shamash  (the  sun-god). 
Hasisadra  enters  the  ship  and  shuts  the  door.  So  dreadful  is  the 
tempest  that  the  gods  in  affright  ascend  for  protection  to  the  heaven 
of  Anu.  Six  days  the  storm  lasts.  On  the  seventh  comes  calm. 
Hasisadra  opens  a  window  and  sees  the  mountain  of  Nizir,  sends  forth 
a  dove,  which  returns;  then  a  swallow,  which  returns;  then  a  raven, 
which  does  not  return;  then,  knowing  that  the  flood  has  passed,  sends 
oat  the  animals,  builds  an  altar,  and  offers  sacrifice,  over  which  the 
gods  gather  like  flies.  Ea  remonstrates  with  Bel,  and  urges  that  here- 
after, when  he  is  angry  with  men,  instead  of  sending  a  deluge,  he 
shall  send  wild  beasts,  who  shall  destroy  them.  Thereupon  Bel  makes 
a  compact  with  Hasisadra,  and  the  gods  take  him  and  his  wife  and 
people  and  place  them  in  a  remote  spot  at  the  mouth  of  the  rivers. 
It  is  now  generally  agreed  that  the  Hebrew  story  of  the  Flood  is 
taken  from  the  Babylonian,  either  mediately  through  the  Canaanites 
(for  the  Babylonians  had  occupied  Canaan  before  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury  B.  C),    or  immediately  during  the  exile  in  the   sixth  century. 


56 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN  LITERATURE 


The  Babylonian  account  is  more  picturesque,  the  Hebrew  more  re- 
strained and  solemn.  The  early  polytheistic  features  have  been 
excluded  by  the  Jewish  editors. 

In  addition  to  these  longer  stories  there  are  a  number  of  legends 
of  no  little  poetical  and  mythical  interest.  In  the  cycle  devoted  to 
the  eagle  there  is  a  story  of  the  struggle  between  the  eagle  and  the 
serpent.  The  latter  complains  to  the  sun-god  that  the  eagle  has 
eaten  his  young.  The  god  suggests  a  plan  whereby  the  hostile  bird 
may  be  caught:  the  body  of  a  wild  ox  is  to  be  set  as  a  snare.  Out 
of  this  plot,  however,  the  eagle  extricates  himself  by  his  sagacity. 
In  the  second  story  the  eagle  comes  to  the  help  of  a  woman  who  is 
struggling  to  bring  a  man-child  (apparently  Etana)  into  the  world. 
In  the  third  is  portrayed  the  ambition  of  the  hero  Etana  to  ascend  to 
heaven.  The  eagle  promises  to  aid  him  in  accomplishing  his  design. 
Clinging  to  the  bird,  he  rises  with  him  higher  and  higher  toward  the 
heavenly  space,  reaching  the  abode  of  Anu,  and  then  the  abode  of 
Ishtar.  As  they  rise  to  height  after  height  the  eagle  describes  the 
appearance  of  the  world  lying  stretched  out  beneath:  at  first  it  rises 
like  a  huge  mountain  out  of  the  sea;  then  the  ocean  appears  as  a 
girdle  encircling  the  land,  and  finally  but  as  a  ditch  a  gardener  digs 
to  irrigate  his  land.  When  they  have  risen  so  high  that  the  earth  is 
scarcely  visible,  Etana  cries  to  the  eagle  to  stop;  so  he  does,  but  his 
strength  is  exhausted,  and  bird  and  man  fall  to  the  earth. 

Another  cycle  of  stories  deals  with  the  winds.  The  god  Zu  longs 
to  have  absolute  power  over  the  world.  To  that  end  he  lurks  about 
the  door  of  the  sun-god,  the  possessor  of  the  tablets  of  fate  whereby 
he  controls  all  things.  Each  morning  before  beginning  his  journey, 
the  sun-god  steps  out  to  send  light  showers  over  the  world.  Watch- 
ing his  opportunity,  Zu  glides  in,  seizes  the  tablets  of  fate,  and  flies 
away  and  hides  himself  in  the  mountains.  So  great  horror  comes 
over  the  world:  it  is  likely  to  be  scorched  by  the  sun-god's  burning 
beams.  Anu  calls  on  the  storm-god  Ramman  to  conquer  Zu,  but  he 
is  frightened  and  declines  the  task,  as  do  other  gods.  Here,  unfor- 
tunately, the  tablet  is  broken,  so  that  we  do  not  know  by  whom  the 
normal  order  was  finally  restored. 

In  the  collection  of  cuneiform  tablets  disinterred  at  Amarna  in  1887 
was  found  the  curious  story  of  Adapa.  The  demigod  Adapa,  the  son 
of  Ea,  fishing  in  the  sea  for  the  family  of  his  lord,  is  overwhelmed  by 
the  stormy  south  wind  and  cast  under  the  waves.  In  anger  he  breaks 
the  wings  of  the  wind,  that  it  may  no  longer  rage  in  the  storm. 
Anu,  informed  that  the  south  wind  no  longer  blows,  summons  Adapa 
to  his  presence.  Ea  instructs  his  son  to  put  on  apparel  of  mourning, 
present  himself  at  Ann's  gate,  and  there  make  friends  with  the  por- 
ters, Tammuz  and  Iszida,  so  that  they  may  speak  a  word  for  him  to 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN   AND  ASSYRIAN   LITERATURE  57 

Anu;  going  into  the  presence  of  the  royal  deity,  he  will  be  offered 
food  and  drink  which  he  must  reject,  and  raiment  and  oil  which 
he  must  accept.  Adapa  carries  out  the  instructions  of  his  father  to 
the  letter.  Anu  is  appeased,  but  laments  that  Adapa,  by  rejecting 
heavenly  food  and  drink,  has  lost  the  opportunity  to  become  immor- 
tal. This  story,  the  record  of  which  is  earlier  than  the  sixteenth 
century  B.  C,  appears  to  contain  two  conceptions  :  it  is  a  mythical 
description  of  the  history  of  the  south  wind,  but  its  conclusion  pre- 
sents a  certain  parallelism  with  the  end  of  the  story  of  Eden  in 
Genesis;  as  there  Adam,  so  here  Adapa,  fails  of  immortality  because 
he  infringes  the  divine  command  concerning  the  divine  food.  We 
have  here  a  suggestion  that  the  story  in  Genesis  is  one  of  the  cycle 
which  dealt  with  the  common  earthly  fact  of  man's  mortality. 

The  legend  of  Dibbarra  seems  to  have  a  historical  basis.  The  god 
Dibbarra  has  devastated  the  cities  of  Babylonia  with  bloody  wars. 
Against  Babylon  he  has  brought  a  hostile  host  and  slain  its  people,  so 
that  Marduk,  the  god  of  Babylon,  curses  him.  And  in  like  manner 
he  has  raged  against  Erech,  and  is  cursed  by  its  goddess  Ishtar.  He 
is  charged  with  confounding  the  righteous  and  unrighteous  in  indis- 
criminate destruction.  But  Dibbarra  determines  to  advance  against 
the  dwelling  of  the  king  of  the  gods,  and  Babylonia  is  to  be  further 
desolated  by  civil  war.  It  is  a  poetical  account  of  devastating  wars 
as  the  production  of  a  hostile  deity.  It  is  obvious  that  these  legends 
have  many  features  in  common  with  those  of  other  lands,  myths  of 
conflict  between  wind  and  sun,  and  the  ambition  of  heroes  to  scale 
the  heights  of  heaven.  How  far  these  similarities  are  the  independ- 
ent products  of  similar  situations,  and  how  far  the  results  of  loans, 
cannot  at  present  be  determined. 

The  moral-religious  literature  of  the  Babylonians  is  not  inferior  in 
interest  to  the  stories  just  mentioned.  The  hymns  to  the  gods  are 
characterized  by  a  sublimity  and  depth  of  feeling  which  remind  us  of 
the  odes  of  the  Hebrew  Psalter.  The  penitential  hymns  appear  to 
contain  expressions  of  sorrow  for  sin,  which  would  indicate  a  high 
development  of  the  religious  consciousness.  These  hymns,  apparently 
a  part  of  the  temple  ritual,  probably  belong  to  a  relatively  late  stage 
of  history;  but  they  are  none  the  less  proof  that  devotional  feeling  in 
ancient  times  was  not  limited  to  any  one  country. 

Other  productions,  such  as  the  hymn  to  the  seven  evil  spirits 
(celebrating  their  mysterious  power),  indicate  a  lower  stage  of  reli- 
gious feeling;  this  is  specially  visible  in  the  magic  formulas,  which 
portray  a  very  early  stratum  of  religious  history.  They  recall  the 
Shamanism  of  Central  Asia  and  the  rites  of  savage  tribes;  but  there 
is  no  reason  to  doubt  that  the  Semitic  religion  in  its  early  stages 
contained  this  magic  element,  which  is  found  all  the  world  over, 


58 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND   ASSYRIAN  LITERATURE 


Riddles  and  Proverbs  are  found  among  the  Babylonians,  as  among 
all  peoples.  Comparatively  few  have  been  discovered,  and  these  pre- 
sen't  nothing  of  peculiar  interest.  The  following  may  serve  as  speci- 
mens :  — "  What  is  that  which  becomes  pregnant  without  conceiving, 
fat  without  eating  ?>*  The  answer  seems  to  be  *<A  cloiid.'^  <^My  coal- 
brazier  clothes  me  with  a  divine  garment,  my  rock  is  founded  in  the 
sea  ^*  (a  volcano).  *  I  dwell  in  a  house  of  pitch  and  brick,  but  over 
me  glide  the  boats*  (a  canal).  *  He  that  says,  <0h,  that  I  might 
exceedingly  avenge  myself!*  draws  from  a  waterless  well,  and  rubs 
the  skin  without  oiling  it.  *  *  When  sickness  is  incurable  and  hunger 
unappeasable,  silver  and  gold  cannot  restore  health  nor  appease  hun- 
ger.** *<As  the  oven  waxes  old,  so  the  foe  tires  of  enmity.*  <<The 
life  of  yesterday  goes  on  every  day.*  "When  the  seed  is  not  good, 
no  sprout  comes  forth.* 

The  poetical  form  of  all  these  pieces  is  characterized  by  that  paral- 
lelism of  members  with  which  we  are  familiar  in  the  poetry  of  the 
Old  Testament.  It  is  rhythmical,  but  apparently  not  metrical:  the 
harmonious  flow  of  syllables  in  any  one  line,  with  more  or  less  beats 
or  cadences,  is  obvious;  but  it  does  not  appear  that  syllables  were 
combined  into  feet,  or  that  there  was  any  fixed  rule  for  the  num- 
ber of  syllables  or  beats  in  a  line.  So  also  strophic  divisions  may 
be  observed,  such  divisions  naturally  resulting  from  the  nature  of  all 
narratives.  Sometimes  the  strophe  seems  to  contain  four  lines,  some- 
times more.  No  strophic  rule  has  yet  been  established;  but  it  seems 
not  unlikely  that  when  the  longer  poetical  pieces  shall  have  been 
more  definitely  fixed  in  form,  certain  principles  of  poetical  composition 
will  present  themselves.  The  thought  of  the  mythical  pieces  and  the 
prayers  and  hymns  is  elevated  and  imaginative.  Some  of  this  poetry 
appears  to  have  belonged  to  a  period  earlier  than  2000  B.  C.  Yet 
the  Babylonians  constructed  no  epic  poem  like  the  < Iliad,*  or  at  any 
rate  none  such  has  yet  been  found.  Their  genius  rather  expressed 
itself  in  brief  or  fragmentary  pieces,  like  the  Hebrews  and  the  Arabs. 

The  Babylonian  prose  literature  consists  almost  entirely  of  short 
chronicles  and  annals.  Royal  inscriptions  have  been  found  covering 
the  period  from  3000  B.  C.  to  539  B.  C.  There  are  eponym  canons, 
statistical  lists,  diplomatic  letters,  military  reports;  but  none  of  these 
rise  to  the  dignity  of  history.  Several  connected  books  of  chronicles 
have  indeed  been  found;  there  is  a  synchronistic  book  of  annals  of 
Babylonia  and  Assyria,  there  is  a  long  Assyrian  chronicle,  and  there 
are  annalistic  fragments.  But  there  is  no  digested  historical  narrative 
which  gives  a  clear  picture  of  the  general  civil  and  political  situation, 
or  any  analysis  of  the  characters  of  kings,  generals,  and  governors, 
or  any  inquiry  into  causes  of  events.  It  is  possible  that  narratives 
having  a  better  claim  to  the  name  of  history  may  yet  be  discovered, 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN  LITERATURE 


59 


resembling  those  of  the  Biblical  Book  of  Kings;  yet  the  Book  of 
Kings  is  scarcely  history  —  neither  the  Jews  nor  the  Babylonians  and 
Assyrians  seem  to  have  had  great  power  in  this  direction. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  collections  of  historical  pieces  is  that 
recently  discovered  at  Amarna,  Here,  out  of  a  mound  which  repre- 
sents a  palace  of  the  Egyptian  King  Amenhotep  IV.,  were  dug  up 
numerous  letters  which  were  exchanged  between  the  kings  of  Babylo- 
nia and  Egypt  in  the  fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  and  numerous 
reports  sent  to  the  Egyptian  government  by  Egyptian  governors  of 
Canaanite  cities.  These  tablets  show  that  at  this  early  time  there  was 
lively  communication  between  the  Euphrates  and  the  Nile,  and  they 
give  a  vivid  picture  of  the  chaotic  state  of  affairs  in  Canaan,  which 
was  exposed  to  the  assaults  of  enemies  on  all  sides.  This  country 
was  then  in  possession  of  Egypt,  but  at  a  still  earlier  period  it  must 
have  been  occupied  by  the  Babylonians.  Only  in  this  way  can  we 
account  for  the  surprising  fact  that  the  Babylonian  cuneiform  script 
and  the  Babylonian  language  form  the  means  of  communication 
between  the  east  and  west  and  between  Egypt  and  Canaan.  The 
literary  value  of  these  letters  is  not  great;  their  interest  is  chiefly 
historic  and  linguistic.  The  same  thing  is  true  of  the  contract 
tablets,  which  are  legal  documents:  these  cover  the  whole  area  of 
Babylonian  history,  and  show  that  civil  law  attained  a  high  state  of 
perfection;  they  are  couched  in  the  usual  legal  phrases. 

The  literary  monuments  mentioned  above  are  all  contained  in 
tablets,  which  have  the  merit  of  giving  in  general  contemporaneous 
records  of  the  things  described.  But  an  account  of  Babylonian  liter- 
ature would  be  incomplete  without  mention  of  the  priest  Berosus. 
Having,  as  priest  of  Bel,  access  to  the  records  of  the  temples,  he 
wrote  a  history  of  his  native  land,  in  which  he  preserved  the  sub- 
stance of  a  number  of  poetical  narratives,  as  well  as  the  ancient 
accounts  of  the  political  history.  The  fragments  of  his  work  which 
have  been  preserved  (see  Cory's  *  Ancient  Fragments')  exhibit  a 
number  of  parallels  with  the  contents  of  the  cuneiform  tablets. 
Though  he  wrote  in  Greek  (he  'lived  in  the  time  of  Alexander  the 
Great),  and  was  probably  trained  in  the  Greek  learning  of  his  time, 
his  work  doubtless  represents  the  spirit  of  Babylonian  historical  writ- 
ing. So  far  as  can  be  judged  from  the  remains  which  have  come 
down  to  us,  its  style  is  of  the  annalistic  sort  which  appears  in  the 
old  inscriptions  and  in  the  historical  books  of  the  Bible. 

The  Babylonian  literature  above  described  must  be  understood  to 
include  the  Assyrian.  Civilization  was  first  established  in  Babylonia, 
and  there  apparently  were  produced  the  great  epic  poems  and  the 
legends;  but  Assyria  when  she  succeeded  to  the  headship  of  the  Meso- 
potamian  valley,  in  the  twelfth  century  B.  C,  adopted  the  literature 


6o  ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN  LITERATURE 

of  her  southern  sister.  A  great  part  of  the  old  poetry  has  been 
found  in  the  library  of  Assurbanipal,  at  Nineveh  (seventh  century 
B.  C),  where  a  host  of  scribes  occupied  themselves  with  the  study  of 
the  ancient  literature.  They  seem  to  have  had  almost  all  the  appa- 
ratus of  modern  critical  work.  Tablets  were  edited,  sometimes  with 
revisions.  There  are  bilingual  tablets,  presenting  in  parallel  columns 
the  older  texts  (called  Sumerian-Accadian)  and  the  modern  version. 
There  are  numerous  grammatical  and  lexicographical  lists.  The  rec- 
ords were  accessible,  and  often  consulted.  Assurbanipal,  in  bringing 
back  a  statue  of  the  goddess  Nana  from  the  Elamite  region,  says  that 
it  was  carried  off  by  the  Elamites  1635  years  before;  and  Nabonidus, 
the  last  king  of  Babylon  (circa  B.  C.  550),  a  man  devoted  to  temple 
restoration,  refers  to  an  inscription  of  King  Naram-Sin,  of  Agane,  who, 
he  says,  reigned  3200  years  before.  In  recent  discoveries  made  at 
Nippur,  by  the  American  Babylonian  Expedition,  some  Assyriologists 
find  evidence  of  the  existence  of  a  Babylonian  civilization  many  cen- 
turies before  B.  C.  4000  (the  dates  B.  C.  5000  and  B.  C.  6000  have  been 
mentioned);  the  material  is  now  undergoing  examination,  and  it  is  too 
early  to  make  definite  statements  of  date.  See  Peters  in  American 
Journal  of  Archaeology  for  January-March,  1895,  and  July-September, 
1895;  and  Hilprecht,  *  The  Babylonian  Expedition  of  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania,*  Vol.  i..  Part  2,  1896. 

The  Assyrian  and  Babylonian  historical  inscriptions,  covering  as 
they  do  the  whole  period  of  Jewish  history  down  to  the  capture  of 
Babylon  by  Cyrus,  are  of  very  great  value  for  the  illustration  of  the 
Old  Testament.  They  have  a  literary  interest  also.  Many  of  them 
are  written  in  semi-rhythmical  style,  a  form  which  was  favored  by 
the  inscriptional  mode  of  writing.  The  sentences  are  composed  of 
short  parallel  clauses,  and  the  nature  of  the  material  induced  a  divis- 
ion into  paragraphs  which  resemble  strophes.  They  are  characterized 
also  by  precision  and  pithiness  of  statement,  and  are  probably  as  trust* 
worthy  as  official  records  ever  are. 


z/^\ 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE  fij 


I.     THEOGONY 

IN  THE  time  when  above  the  heaven  was  not  named, 
The  earth  beneath  bore  no  name, 
When  the  ocean,  the  primeval  parent  of  both, 
The  abyss  Tiamat  the  mother  of  both    .     .     . 

The  waters  of  both  mingled  in  one. 

No  fields  as  yet  were  tilled,  no  moors  to  be  seen, 

When  as  yet  of  the  gods  not  one  had  been  produced, 

No  names  they  bore,  no  titles  they  had, 

Then  were  bom  of  the  gods    .     .     . 

Lachmu  Lachamu  came  into  existence. 

Many  ages  past     ... 

Anshar,  Kishar  were  born. 

Many  days  went  by.     Ann     .     .     . 

[Here  there  is  a  long  lacuna.  The  lost  lines  completed  the  history  of  the 
creation  of  the  gods,  and  gave  the  reason  for  the  uprising  of  Tiamat  with  her 
hosts.  What  it  was  that  divided  the  divine  society  into  two  hostile  camps  can 
only  be  conjectured ;  probably  Tiamat,  who  represents  the  unfriendly  or  chaotic 
forces  of  nature,  saw  that  her  domain  was  being  encroached  on  by  the  light- 
gods,  who  stand  for  cosmic  order.] 


II.     REVOLT  OF   TIAMAT 

To  HER  came  flocking  all  the  gods. 
They  gathered  together,  they  came  to  Tiamat; 
Angry  they  plan,  restless  by  night  and  by  day, 
Prepare  for  war  with  gestures  of  rage  and  hate. 
With  combined  might  to  begin  the  battle. 
The  mother  of  the  abyss,  she  who  created  them  all, 
Unconquerable  warriors,  gave  them  giant  snakes, 
Sharp  of  tooth,  pitiless  in  might. 
With  poison  like  blood  she  filled  their  bodies, 
Huge  poisonous  adders  raging,  she  clothed  them  with  dread. 
Filled  them  with  splendor    .     .     . 
He  who  sees  them  shuddering  shall  seize  him, 
They  rear  their  bodies,  none  can  resist  their  breast. 
Vipers  she  made,  terrible  snakes    .     .     . 

.     .     .     raging  dogs,  scorpion-men    .     .     .     fish  men    •    •    • 
Bearing  invincible  arms,  fearless  in  the  fight. 
Stem  are  her  commands,  not  to  be  resisted. 


62  ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 

Of  all  the  first-born  gods,  because  he  gave  her  help, 

She  raised  up  Kingu  in  the  midst,  she  made  him  the  greatest, 

To  march  in  front  of  the  host,  to  lead  the  whole, 

To  begin  the  war  of  arms,  to  advance  the  attack. 

Forward  in  the  fight  to  be  the  triumpher. 

This  she  gave  into  his  hand,  made  him  sit  on  the  throne:  — 

By  my  command  I  make  thee  great  in  the  circle  of  the  gods; 

Rule  over  all  the  gods  I  have  given  to  thee, 

The  greatest  shalt  thou  be,  thou  my  chosen  consort; 

Be  thy  name  made  great  over  all  the  earth. 

She  gave  him  the  tablets  of  fate,  laid  them  on  his  breast. 

Thy  command  be  not  gainsaid,  thy  word  stand  fast. 

Thus  lifted  up  on  high,  endued  with  Ann's  rank. 

Among  the  gods  her  children  Kingu  did  bear  rule. 

[The  gods,  dismayed,  first  appeal  to  Anu  for  aid  against  Tiamat,  but  he 
refuses  to  lead  the  attack.     Anshar  then  sends  to  invite  the  gods  to  a  feast.] 

Anshar  opened  his  mouth. 

To  Gaga,  his  servant,  spake  he:  — 

Go,  O  Gaga,  my  servant  thou  who  delightest  my  soul, 

To  Lachmu  Lachamu  I  will  send  thee     .     .     . 

That  the  gods  may  sit  at  the  feast, 

Bread  to  eat,  wine  to  drink. 

To  give  the  rule  to  Marduk. 

Up  Gaga,  to  them  go. 

And  tell  what  I  say  to  thee:  — 

Anshar,  your  son,  has  sent  me, 

Told  me  the  desire  of  his  heart. 

[He  repeats  the  preceding  description   of  Tiamat's  preparations,  and  an- 
nounces that  Marduk  has  agreed  to  face  the  foe.] 

I  sent  Anu,  naught  can  he  against  her. 

Nudimmud  was  afraid  and  turned  cowering  back, 

Marduk  accepted  the  task,  the  ruler  of  gods,  your  son, 

Against  Tiamat  to  march  his  heart  impels  him. 

So  speaks  he  to  me : 

If  I  succeed,  I,  your  avenger. 

Conquer  Tiamat  and  save  your  lives. 

Come,  ye  all,  and  declare  me  supreme, 

In  Upsukkenaku  enter  ye  joyfully  all. 

With  my  mouth  will  I  bear  rule. 

Unchangeable  be  whate'er  I  do. 

The  word  of  my  lips  be  never  reversed  or  gainsaid. 

Come  and  to  him  give  over  the  rule. 

That  he  may  go  and  meet  the  evil  foe. 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 


63 


ceeds.] 


Gaga  went,  strode  on  his  way, 

Humbly    before    Lachmu    and    Lachamu,    the    gods,    his 

^  fathers, 

He  paid  his  homage  and  kissed  the  ground, 
Bent  lowly  down  and  to  them  spake:  — 
Anshar,  your  son,  has  sent  me. 
Told  me  the  desire  of  his  heart. 

[Gaga  then  repeats  Anshar's   message  at  length,  and  the  narrative  pro- 
is  1 


Lachmu  and  Lachamu  heard  and  were  afraid, 

The  Igigi  all  lamented  sore: 

What  change  has  come  about  that  she  thus  hates  us? 

We  cannot  understand  this  deed  of  Tiamat. 

With  hurry  and  haste  they  went. 

The  great  gods,  all  the  dealers  oi  fate, 

.     .     .     with   eager  tongue,   sat  themselves  down  to  the 

feast. 
Bread  they  ate,  wine  they  drank. 
The  sweet  wine  entered  their  souls. 
They  drank  their  fill,  full  were  their  bodies. 

[In  this  happy  state  they  were  ready  to  accept  Marduk's  conditions.] 

To  Marduk,  their  avenger,  they  gave  over  the  rule. 

They  lifted  him  up  on  a  lofty  throne, 

Above  his  fathers  he  took  his  place  as  judge:  — 

Most  honored  be  thou  among  the  great  gods, 

Unequaled  thy  rule,  thy  word  is  Anu. 

From  this  time  forth  thy  command  be  not  gainsaid; 

To  lift  up  and  cast  down  be  the  work  of  thy  hand; 

The  speech  of  thy  mouth  stand  fast,  thy  word  be  irresistible, 

None  of  the  gods  shall  intrude  on  thy  domain. 

Fullness  of  wealth,  the  desire  of  the  temples  of  the  gods, 

Be  the  portion  of  thy  shrine,  though  they  be  in  need. 

Marduk,  thou,  our  avenger, 

Thine  be  the  kingdom  over  all  forever. 

Sit  thee  down  in  might,  noble  be  thy  word. 

Thy  arms  shall  never  yield,  the  foes  they  shall  crush. 

O  lord,  he  who  trusts  in  thee,  him  grant  thou  life. 

But  the  deity  who  set  evil  on  foot,  her  life  pour  out. 

Then  in  the  midst  they  placed  a  garment. 

To  Marduk  their  first-born  thus  spake  they:  — 

Thy  rule,  O  lord,  be  chief  among  the  gods, 

To  destroy  and  to  create  —  speak  and  let  it  be. 


64  ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 

Open  thy  mouth,  let  the  garment  vanish. 

Utter  again  thy  command,  let  the  garment  appear. 

He  spake  with  his  mouth,  vanished  the  garment; 

Again  he  commanded,  and  the  garment  appeared. 

When  the  gods,  his  fathers,  saw  thus  his  word  fulfilled, 

Joyful  were  they  and  did  homage:  Marduk  is  king. 

On  him  conferred  sceptre  and  throne.     .     .     . 

Gave  him  invincible  arms  to  crush  them  that  hate  him. 

Now  go  and  cut  short  the  life  of  Tiamat, 

May  the  winds  into  a  secret  place  carry  her  blood. 

The  ruler  of  the  gods  they  made  him,  the  gods,  his  fathers, 

Wished  him  success  and  glory  in  the  way  on  which  he  went. 

He  made  ready  a  bow,  prepared  it  for  use. 

Made  ready  a  spear  to  be  his  weapon. 

He  took  the     .     .     .     seized  it  in  his  right  hand. 

Bow  and  quiver  hung  at  his  side. 

Lightning  he  fashioned  flashing  before  him, 

With  glowing  flame  he  fllled  its  body, 

A  net  he  prepared  to  seize  Tiamat, 

Guarded  the  four  corners  of  the  world  that  nothing  of  hex 

should  escape, 
On  South  and  North,  on  East  and  West 
He  laid  the  net,  his  father  Ann's  gift. 
He  fashioned  the  evil  wind,  the  south  blast,  the  tornado, 
The  four-and-seven  wind,  the  wind  of  destruction  and  woe, 
Sent  forth  the  seven  winds  which  he  had  made 
Tiamat's  body  to  destroy,  after  him  they  followed. 
Then  seized  the  lord  the  thunderbolt,  his  mighty  weapon. 
The  irresistible  chariot,  the  terrible,  he  mounted. 
To  it  four  horses  he  harnessed,  pitiless,  fiery,  swift. 
Their  teeth  were  full  of  venom  covered  with  foam. 

On  it  mounted  Marduk  the  mighty  in  battle. 
To  right  and  left  he  looked,  lifting  his  eye. 
His  terrible  brightness  surrounded  his  head. 
Against  her  he  advanced,  went  on  his  way, 
To  Tiamat  lifted  his  face. 

They  looked  at  him,  at  him  looked  the  gods. 

The  gods,  his  fathers,  looked  at  him;  at  him  looked  the  gods, 

And  nearer  pressed  the  lord,  with  his  eye  piercing  Tiamat, 

On  Kingu  her  consort  rested  his  look. 

As  he  so  looked,  every  way  is  stopped. 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE  ge 

His  senses  Kingu  loses,  vanishes  his  thought, 

And  the  gods,  his  helpers,  who  stood  by  his  side 

Saw  their  leader  powerless     .     .     . 

But  Tiamat  stood,  not  turning  her  back. 

With  fierce  lips  to  him  she  spake :  — 

Then  grasped  the  lord  his   thunderbolt,  his  mighty   weapon, 
Angry  at  Tiamat  he  hurled  his  words:  — 

When  Tiamat  heard  these  words. 

She  fell  into  fury,  beside  herself  was  she. 

Tiamat  cried  wild  and  loud 

Till  through  and  through  her  body  shook. 

She  utters  her  magic  formula,  speaks  her  word. 

And  the  gods  of  battle  rush  to  arms. 

Then  advance  Tiamat,  and  Marduk  the  ruler  of  the  gods 

To  battle  they  rush,  come  on  to  the  fight. 

His  wide-stretched  net  over  her  the  lord  did  cast. 

The  evil  wind  from  behind  him  he  let  loose  in  her  face. 

Tiamat  opened  her  throat  as  wide  as  she  might. 

Into  it  he  sent  the  evil  wind  before  she  could  close  her  lips. 

The  terrible  winds  filled  her  body. 

Her  senses  she  lost,  wide  open  stood  her  throat. 

He  seized  his  spear,  through  her  body  he  ran  it. 

Her  inward  parts  he  hewed,  cut  to  pieces  her  heart. 

Her  he  overcame,  put  an  end  to  her  life, 

Cast  away  her  corpse  and  on  it  stood. 

So  he,  the  leader,  slew  Tiamat, 

Her  power  he  crushed,  her  might  he  destroyed. 

Then  the  gods,  her  helpers,  who  stood  at  her  side, 

Fear  and  trembling  seized  them,  their  backs  they  turned. 

Away  they  fled  to  save  their  lives. 

Fast  were  they  girt,  escape  they  could  not, 

Captive  he  took  them,  broke  in  pieces  their  arms. 

They  were  caught  in  the  net,  sat  in  the  toils. 

All  the  earth  they  filled  with  their  cry. 

Their  doom  they  bore,  held  fast  in  prison. 

And  the  eleven  creatures,  clothed  with  dread, 

A  herd  of  demons  who  with  her  went. 

These  he  subdued,  destroyed  their  power. 

Crushed  their  valor,  trod  them  under  foot; 

And  Kingu,  who  had  grown  great  over  them  all. 

Him  he  overcame  with  the  god  Kugga,  [his. 

Took  from  him  the  tablets  of  fate  which  were  not  rightfully 


66  ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN  LITERATURE 

Stamped  thereon  his  seal,  and  hung  them  on  his  breast. 

When  thus  the  doughty  Marduk  had  conquered  his  foes, 

His  proud  adversary  to  shame  had  brought. 

Had  completed  Anshar's  triumph  over  the  enemy, 

Had  fulfilled  Nudimmud's  will. 

Then  the  conquered  gods  he  put  in  prison. 

And  to  Tiamat,  whom  he  had  conquered,  returned. 

Under  his  foot  the  lord  Tiamat's  body  trod. 

With  his  irresistible  club  he  shattered  her  skull. 

Through  the  veins  of  her  blood  he  cut; 

Commanded  the  north  wind  to  bear  it  to  a  secret  place. 

His  fathers,  saw  it,  rejoiced  and  shouted. 

Gifts  and  offerings  to  him  they  brought. 

The  lord  was  appeased  seeing  her  corpse. 

Dividing  her  body,  wise  plans  he  laid. 

Into  two  halves  like  a  fish  he  divided  her. 

Out  of  one  half  he  made  the  vault  of  heaven, 

A  bar  he  set  and  guards  he  posted. 

Gave  them  command  that  the  waters  pass  not  through. 

Through  the  heaven  he  strode,  viewed  its  spaces, 

Near  the  deep  placed  Nudimmud's  dwelling. 

And  the  lord  measured  the  domain  of  the  deep, 

A  palace  like  it,  Eshara,  he  built. 

The  palace  Eshara  which  he  fashioned  as  heaven. 

Therein  made  he  Anu,  Bel,  and  Ea  to  dwell. 

He  established  the  station  of  the  great  gods. 

Stars  which  were  like  them,  constellations  he  set. 

The  year  he  established,  marked  off  its  parts. 

Divided  twelve  months  by  three  stars. 

From  the  day  that  begins  the  year  to  the  day  that  ends  it 

He  established  the  station  Nibir  to  mark  its  limits. 

That  no  harm  come,  no  one  go  astray, 

The  stations  of  Bel  and  Ea  he  set  by  its  side. 

Great  doors  he  made  on  this  side  and  that. 

Closed  them  fast  on  left  and  right. 

The  moon-god  he  summoned,  to  him  committed  the  night. 

[Here  the  account   breaks  off;  there  probably  toUowed  the  history  of  the 
creation  of  the  earth  and  of  man.] 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN   LITERATURE 


67 


III.     FRAGMENTS   OF  A   DESCENT   TO   THE   UNDERWORLD 

TO  THE  underworld  I  turn, 
I  spread  my  wings  like  a  bird, 

I  descend  to  the  house  of  darkness,    to  the  dwelling  of 
Irkalla, 
To  the  house  from  which  there  is  no  exit, 
The  road  on  which  there  is  no  return. 
To  the  house  whose  dwellers  long  for  light, 
Dust  is  their  nourishment  and  mud  their  food. 
Whose  chiefs  are  like  feathered  birds, 
Where  light  is  never  seen,  in  darkness  they  dwell. 
In  the  house  which  I  will  enter 
There  is  treasured  up  for  me  a  crown, 
With  the  crowned  ones  who  of  old  ruled  the  earth. 
To  whom  Anu  and  Bel  have  given  terrible  names. 
Carrion  is  their  food,  their  drink  stagnant  water. 
There  dwell  the  chiefs  and  unconquered  ones, 
There  dwell  the  bards  and  the  mighty  men. 
Monsters  of  the  deep  of  the  great  gods. 
It  is  the  dwelling  of  Etana,  the  dwelling  of  Ner, 
Of  Ninkigal,  the  queen  of  the  underworld    ... 
Her  I  will  approach  and  she  will  see  me. 


Ishtar's   Descent  to  the  Underworld 

[After  a  description  substantially  identical  with  the  first  half  of  the  pre- 
ceding poem,  the  story  goes  on: — ] 

TO  THE  gate  of  the  underworld  Ishtar  came. 
To    the    keeper    of    the    gate    her    command    she    ad- 
dressed :  — 
Keeper  of  the  waters,  open  thy  gate, 
Open  thy  gate  that  I  may  enter. 
If  thou  open  not  the  gate  and  let  me  in, 
I  will  strike  the  door,  the  posts  I  will  shatter, 
I  will  strike  the  hinges,  burst  open  the  doors, 
I  will  raise  up  the  dead  devourers  of  the  living. 
Over  the  living  the  dead  shall  triumph. 
The  keeper  opened  his  mouth  and  spake, 
To  the  Princess  Ishtar  he  cried:  — 
Stay,  lady,  do  not  thus, 
Let  me  go  and  repeat  thy  words  to  Queen  Ninkigal, 


5g  ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND   ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 

[He  goes  and  gets  the  terrible  queen's  permission  for  Ishtar  to  enter  on 
certain  conditions.] 

Through  the  first  gate  he  caused  her  to  pass. 

The  crown  of  her  head  he  took  away. 

Why,  O   keeper,  takest   thou  away  the   great   crown   of    my 

head? 
Thus,  O   lady,  the   goddess   of  the   underworld   doeth   to   all 

her  visitors  at  the  entrance. 
Through  the  second  gate  he  caused  her  to  pass, 
The  earrings  of  her  ears  he  took  away. 
Why,  O  keeper,  takest  thou  away  the  earrings  of  my  ears  ? 
So,  O  lady,  the  goddess  of  the  underworld  doeth  to  all  that 

enter  her  realm. 

[And  so  at  each  gate  till  she  is  stripped  of  clothing.  A  long  time  Ninki- 
gal  holds  her  prisoner,  and  in  the  upper  world  love  vanishes  and  men  and 
gods  mourn.  Ea  sees  that  Ishtar  must  return,  and  sends  his  messenger  to 
bring  her.] 

Go  forth,  O  messenger. 

Toward  the  gates  of  the  underworld  set  thy  face. 

Let  the  seven  gates  of  Hades  be  opened  at  thy  presence, 

Let  Ninkigal  see  thee  and  rejoice  at  thy  arrival, 

That  her  heart  be  satisfied  and  her  anger  be  removed. 

Appease  her  by  the  names  of  the  great  gods    .     .     . 

Ninkigal,  when  this  she  heard. 

Beat  her  br-east  and  wrung  her  hands. 

Turned  away,  no  comfort  would  she  take. 

Go,  thou  messenger. 

Let  the  great  jailer  keep  thee, 

The  refuse  of  the  city  be  thy  food. 

The  drains  of  the  city  thy  drink, 

The  shadow  of  the  dungeon  be  thy  resting-place. 

The  slab  of  stone  be  thy  seat. 

Ninkigal  opened  her  mouth  and  spake, 

To  Simtar,  her  attendant,  her  command  she  gave. 

Go,  Simtar,  strike  the  palace  of  judgment, 

Pour  over  Ishtar  the  water  of  life,  and  bring  her  before  me. 

Simtar  went  and  struck  the  palace  of  judgment, 

On  Ishtar  he  poured  the  water  of  life  and  brought  her. 

Through  the  first  gate  he  caused  her  to  pass, 

And  restored  to  her  her  covering  cloak. 

[And  so  through  the  seven  gates  till  all  her  ornaments  are  restored.  The 
ciesult  of  the  visit  to  the  underworld  is  not  described.] 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN   AND   ASSYRIAN   LITERATURE  69 


IV.     THE    FLOOD 

[The  hero  Gilgamesh  (Izdubar),  wandering  in  search  of  healing  for  his 
sickness,  finds  Hasisadra  (Xisuthros),  the  Babylonian  Noah,  who  tells  him  the 
story  of  the  Flood.] 

HASISADRA  spake  to  him,  to  Gilgamesh:  — 
To    thee   I   will    reveal,    Gilgamesh,    the   Story  of   my 
deliverance. 
And  the  oracle  of  the  gods  I  will  make  known  to  thee. 
The  city  Surippak,  which,  as  thou  knowest, 
Lies  on  the  Euphrates'  bank, 
Already  old  was  this  city 
When  the  gods  that  therein  dwell 
To  send  a  flood  their  heart  impelled  them, 
All  the  great  gods:  their  father  Anu, 
Their  counsellor  the  warlike  Bel, 
Adar  their  throne-bearer  and  the  Prince  Ennug^. 
The  lord  of  boundless  wisdom, 
Ea,  sat  with  them  in  council. 
Their  resolve  he  announced  and  so  he  spake: — 
O  thou  of  Surippak,  son  of  Ubaratutu, 
Leave  thy  house  and  build  a  ship. 
They  will  destroy  the  seed  of  life. 

Do  thou  preserve  in  life,  and  hither  bring  the  seed  of  life 
Of  every  sort  into  the  ship. 

[Here  follows  a  statement  of  the  dimensions  of  the  ship,  but  the  numbers 
are  lost.] 

When  this  I  heard  to  Ea  my  lord  I  spake :  — 

The  building  of  the  ship,  O  lord,  which  thou  commandest 

If  I  perform  it,  people  and  elders  will  mock  me. 

Ea  opened  his  mouth  and  spake. 

Spake  to  me,  his  servant:  — 

[The  text  is  here  mutilated:  Hasisadra  is  ordered  to  threaten  the  mockers 
with  Ea's  vengeance.] 

Thou,  however,  shut  not  thy  door  till  I  shall  send  thee  word. 

Then  pass  through  the  door  and  bring 

All  grain  and  goods  and  wealth. 

Family,  servants  and  maids  and  all  thy  kin. 

The  cattle  of  the  field,  the  beasts  of  the  field. 

Hasisadra  opened  his  mouth,  to  Ea  his  lord  he  said:  — 

O  my  lord,  a  ship  in  this  wise  hath  no  one  ever  built  .    .  . 


70  ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 

[Hasisadra  tells  how  he  built  the  ship  according  to  Ea's  directions.] 

All  that  I  had  I  brought  together, 

All  of  silver  and  all  of  gold, 

And  all  of  the  seed  of  life  into  the  ship  I  brought. 

And  my  household,  men  and  women. 

The  cattle  of  the  field,  the  beasts  of  the  field, 

And  all  my  kin  I  caused  to  enter. 

Then  when  the  sun  the  destined  time  brought  on, 

To  me  he  said  at  even-fall:  — 

Destruction  shall  the  heaven  rain. 

Enter  the  ship  and  close  the  door. 

With  sorrow  on  that  day  I  saw  the  sun  go  down. 

The  day  on  which  I  was  to  enter  the  ship  I  was  afraid. 

Yet  into  the  ship  I  went,  behind  me  the  door  I  closed. 

Into   the   hands  of  the   steersman   I  gave   the   ship  with  its 

cargo. 
Then  from  the  heaven's  horizon  rose  the  dark  cloud 
Raman  uttered  his  thunder, 
Nabu  and  Sarru  rushed  on. 
Over  hill  and  dale  strode  the  throne-bearers, 
Adar  sent  ceaseless  streams,  floods  the  Anunnaki  brought. 
Their  power  shakes  the  earth, 

Raman's  billows  up  to  heaven  mount. 
All  light  to  darkness  is  turned. 

Brother  looks  not  after  brother,  no  man  for  another  cares. 
The  gods  in  heaven  are  frightened,  refuge  they  seek. 
Upward  they  mount  to  the  heaven  of  Anu. 
Like  a  dog  in  his  lair. 

So  cower  the  gods  together  at  the  bars  of  heaven. 
Ishtar  cries  out  in  pain,  loud  cries  the  exalted  goddess:  — 
All  is  turned  to  mire.  [evil. 

This  evil   to  the  gods  I   announced,  to  the  gods  foretold   the 
This  exterminating  war  foretold 
Against  my  race  of  mankind. 

Not  for  this  bare  I  men  that  like  the  brood  of  the  fishes 
They  should  fill  the  sea. 

Then  wept  the  gods  with  her  over  the  Anunnaki, 
In  lamentation  sat  the  gods,  their  lips  hard  pressed  together. 
Six  days  and   seven  nights  ruled  wind  and   flood  and  storm. 
But  when   the  seventh   day  broke,  subsided   the   storm,  and 
the  flood 


70  ACCADrA>:  BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 

[Hasi&:>  'Wit  th«'  ship  according  to  Ea's  din-f tiotK.l 

'  had  I  '      vtirht  together, 
t  gold, 
<i  of  life  into  the  ship  I  brought. 
■  d,  men  and  women, 
the  field,  the  beasts  of  the  field,     ^ 
-  !>   kin  I  caused  to  enter, 
when  the  sun  the  destined  time  brought  on, 
o  he  said  at  even-fall:  — 
.j,;iruction  shall  the  heaven  rain. 
Enter  the  ship  and  close  the  d-   ■; 
With  sorrow  on  that  >' 
The  day  on  which  T 
Yet  into  the  ship 
Into   the   har./"  i    gave    me    sr;;p   wim    its 

T  s  horizon  rose  the  dark  cloud 

}  imder, 

>  ASSymANoGLAY  TABLET, 

ContaiA/n'T  a  part  of  the  storj'  of  the  flood,  from 'tjie-^iibrarv  of  Assur- 
ba^Jpal.      Found    in    recent    explorations    in    A'^^^f%by{^P^' 
London;    British   Museum. 

Raman's  s  .nt. 

All  light  to  darkr 

Brother  looks  not  after  rtr  ni,   r,  no  man  for  another  cares. 
The  gods  in  heaven  r  -ned,  refuge  they  seek, 

Upward  they  >  tiic  Ueaven  of  Anu. 

Like  a  dog  ii. 

So  cower  the  gods  tf)v  the  bars  of  heaven. 

Ishtar  cries  out  in  pa.  "  ^  the  exalted  goddess:  — 

All  is  turned  to  mire.  [evil. 

This  evil  to  the  gods  la  ;.  to  the  gods  foretold  the 

This  exterminating  war  foi^.  . 
Against  my  race  of  mankind. 

Not  for  this  bare  I  men  that  like  the  brood  of  the  fishes 
They  should  fill  the  sea. 

Then  wept  the  gods  with  her  over  the  Anunnaki, 
In  lamentation  sat  the  gods,  their  lips  hard  pressed  together. 
Six  days  and  seven   nights  ruled  wind  and   flood  and  storm. 
BvLt  when   the  seventh   day  broke,  subsided   the   storm,  and 
the  flood 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 


71 


Which  raged  like  a  mighty  host,  settled  itself  to  quiet. 

Down  went  the  sea,  ceased  storm  and  flood. 

Through  the  sea  I  rode  lamenting. 

The  upper  dwellings  of  men  were  ruined, 

Corpses  floated  like  trees. 

A  window  I  opened,  on  my  face  the  daylight  fell* 

I  shuddered  and  sat  me  down  weeping, 

Over  my  face  flowed  my  tears. 

I  rode  over  regions  of  land,  on  a  terrible  sea. 

Then  rose  one  piece  of  land  twelve  measures  high. 

To  the  land  Nizir  the  ship  was  steered. 

The  mountain  Nizir  held  the  ship  fast,  and  let  it  no  more  go. 

At  the  dawn  of  the  seventh  day 

I  took  a  dove  and  sent  it  forth. 

Hither  and  thither  flew  the  dove. 

No  resting-place  it  found,  back  to  me  it  came. 

A  swallow  I  took  and  sent  it  forth. 

No  resting-place  it  found,  and  back  to  me  it  came. 

A  raven  I  took  and  sent  it  forth, 

Forth  flew  the  raven  and  saw  that  the  water  had 
fallen. 

Carefully  waded  on  but  came  not  back. 

All  the  animals  then  to  the  four  winds  I  sent. 

A  sacrifice  I  offered. 

An  altar  I  built  on  the  mountain-top. 

By  sevens  I  placed  the  vessels. 

Under  them  spread  sweet  cane  and  cedar. 

The  gods  inhaled  the  smoke,  inhaled  the  sweet-smell- 
ing smoke. 

Like  flies  the  gods  collected  over  the  offering. 

Thither  then  came  Ishtar, 

Lifted  on  high  her  bow,  which  Anu  had  made: — 

These  days  I  will  not  forget,  will  keep  them  in  remem- 
brance. 

Them  I  will  never  forget. 

Let  the  gods  come  to  the  altar. 

But  let  not  Bel  to  the  altar  come. 

Because  he  heedlessly  wrought,  the  flood  he  brought  on. 

To  destruction  my  people  gave  over. 

Thither  came  Bel  and  saw  the  ship. 

Full  of  anger  was  he 

Against  the  gods  and  the  spirits  of  heaven:— 

What  soul  has  escaped! 


72 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND   ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 

In  the  destruction  no  man  shall  live. 

Then  Adar  opened  his  mouth  and  spake, 

Spake  to  the  warlike  Bel:  — 

Who  but  Ea  knew  it  ? 

He  knew  and  all  he  hath  told. 

Then  Ea  opened  his  mouth, 

Spake  to  the  warlike  Bel:  — 
Thou  art  the  valiant  leader  of  the  gods, 

Why  hast  thou  heedlessly  wrought,  and  brought  on  the  flood  ? 
Let  the  sinner  bear  his  sin,  the  wrongdoer  his  wrong; 
Yield  to  our  request,  that  he  be  not  wholly  destroyed. 
Instead  of  sending  a  flood,  send  lions  that  men  be  reduced; 
Instead  of  sending  a  flood,  send  hyenas  that  men  be  reduced; 
Instead  of  sending  a  flood,  send  flames  to  waste  the  land; 
Instead  of  sending  a  flood,  send  pestilence  that  men  be  reduced. 
The  counsel  of  the  great  gods  to  him  I  did  not  impart; 
A  dream  to  Hasisadra  I  sent,  and  the  will  of  the  gods  he  learned. 

Then  came  right  reason  to  Bel, 

Into  the  ship  he  entered. 

Took  my  hand  and  lifted  me  up. 

Raised  my  wife  and  laid  her  hand  in  mine, 

To  us  he  turned,  between  us  he  stepped. 

His  blessing  he  gave. 

Human  Hasisadra  has  been, 

But  he  and  his  wife  united 

Now  to  the  gods  shall  be  raised, 

And  Hasisadra  shall  dwell  far  off  at  the  mouth  of  the 
streams. 

Then  they  took  me  and  placed  me 

Far  off  at  the  mouth  of  the  streams. 

V.  THE  EAGLE  AND  THE  SNAKE 

To  Samas  came  the  snake  and  said:  — 
The  eagle  has  come  to  my  nest,  my  young  are  scat 
tered. 
See,  O  Samas,  what  evil  he  has  done  me. 
Help  me,  thy  nest  is  as  broad  as  the  earth, 
Thy  snare  is  like  the  heavens, 
Who  can  escape  out  of  thy  net? 
Hearing  the  snake's  complaint, 
Samas  opened  his  mouth  and  spake:  — 
Get  thee  on  thy  way,  go  to  the  mountain. 
A  wild  ox  shall  be  thy  hiding-place. 


AGCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 


73 


Open  his  body,  tear  out  his  inward  parts. 

Make  thy  dwelling  within  him. 

All   the   birds   of   heaven   will    descend,    with    them   will 

come  the  eagle, 
Heedless  and  hurrying  on  the  flesh  he  will  swoop. 
Thinking  of  that  which  is  hidden  inside. 
So  soon  as  he  enters  the  ox,  seize  his  wing, 
Tear  off  his  wing-feathers  and  claws. 
Pull  him  to  pieces  and  cast  him  away. 
Let  him  die  of  hunger  and  thirst. 
So  as  the  mighty  Samas  commanded. 
Rose  the  snake,  went  to  the  mountain. 
There  he  found  a  wild  ox. 
Opened  his  body,  tore  out  his  inward  parts. 
Entered  and  dwelt  within  him. 
And  the  birds  of  heaven  descended,  with  them  came  the 

eagle. 
Yet  the  eagle,  fearing  a  snare,  ate  not  of  the  flesh  with 

the  birds. 
The  eagle  spake  to  his  young:  — 

We  will  not  fly  down,  nor  eat  of  the  flesh  of  the  wild  ox. 
An  eaglet,  keen  of  eye,  thus  to  his  father  spake: — 
In  the  flesh  of  the  ox  lurks  the  snake 

[The  rest  is  lost.] 


VI.     THE  FLIGHT  OF   ETANA 

THE  priests  have  offered  my  sacrifice 
With  joyful  hearts  to  the  gods. 

O  Lord,  issue  thy  command. 
Give  me  the  plant  of  birth,  show  me  the  plant  of  birth. 
Bring  the  child  into  the  world,  grant  me  a  son. 
Samas  opened  his  mouth  and  spake  to  Etana:  — 
Away  with  thee,  go  to  the  mountain.     .     .     . 
The  eagle  opened  his  mouth  and  spake  to  Etana: — 
Wherefore  art  thou  come? 

Etana  opened  his  mouth  and  said  to  the  eagle: — 
My  friend,  give  me   the  plant  of  birth,    show  me  the  plant 

of  birth. 
Bring  the  child  into  the  world,  grant  me  a  son.     .     ,     • 

To  Etana  then  spake  the  eagle:  — 

My  friend,  be  of  good  cheer. 

Come,  let  me  bear  thee  to  Anu's  heaven. 


y4  ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND   ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 

On  my  breast  lay  thy  breast, 

Grasp  with  thy  hands  the  feathers  of  my  wings, 

On  my  side  lay  thy  side. 

On  his  breast  he  laid  his  breast, 

On  his  feathers  he  placed  his  hands, 

On  his  side  laid  his  side. 

Firmly  he  clung,  great  was  his  weight. 

Two  hours  he  bore  him  on  high. 

The  eagle  spake  to  him,  to  Etana:  — 

See  my  friend,  the  land,  how  it  lies, 

Look  at  the  sea,  the  ocean-girded,  [waters. 

Like   a  mountain   looks   the  land,    the    sea   like    petty 

Two  hours  more  he  bore  him  up. 

The  eagle  spake  to  him,  to  Etana:  — 

See  my  friend  the  land,  how  it  lies, 

The  sea  is  like  the  girdle  of  the  land. 

Two  hours  more  he  bore  him  up. 

The  eagle  spake  to  him,  to  Etana:  — 

See  my  friend  the  land,  how  it  lies. 

The  sea  is  like  the  gardener's  ditches. 

Up  they  rose  to  Ann's  heaven. 

Came  to  the  gate  of  Anu,  Bel  and  Ea.     .     .     . 

Come,  my  friend,  let  me  bear  thee  to  Ishtar, 

To  Ishtar,  the  queen,  shalt  thou  go,  and   dwell   at  her 

feet. 
On  my  side  lay  thy  side. 
Grasp  my  wing-feathers  with  thy  hands. 
On  his  side  he  laid  his  side, 
His  feathers  he  grasped  with  his  hands. 
Two  hours  he  bore  him  on  high. 
My  friend  see  the  land,  how  it  lies. 
How  it  spreads  itself  out. 
The  broad  sea  is  as  great  as  a  court. 
Two  hours  he  bore  him  on  high. 
My  friend  see  the  land,  how  it  lies, 
The  land  is  like  the  bed  of  a  garden. 
The  broad  sea  is  as  great  as  a  [.] 
Two  hours  he  bore  him  on  high. 
My  friend  see  the  land,  how  it  lies. 

[Etana,  frightened,  begs  the  eagle  to  ascend  no  further;  then,  as  it  seems. 
the  bird's  strength  is  exhausted.] 

To  the  earth  the  eagle  fell  down 
Shattered  upon  the  ground. 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE  yj 

VII.     THE   GOD   ZU 

HE  SEES  the  badges  of  rule. 
His  royal  crown,  his  raiment  divine. 
On  the  tablets  of  fate  of  the  god  Zu  fixes  his  look. 
On  the   father   of  the   gods,  the  god  of   Duranki,  Zu  fixes 

his  gaze. 
Lust  after  rule  enters  into  his  soul. 
I  will  take  the  tablets  of  fate  of  the  gods, 
Will  determine  the  oracle  of  all  the  gods, 
Will  set  up  my  throne,  all  orders  control. 
Will  rule  all  the  heavenly  spirits. 

His  heart  was  set  on  combat.  [of  day. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  hall  he  stands,  waiting  the  break 
When  Bel  dispensed  the  tender  rains. 
Sat  on  his  throne,  put  off  his  crown. 
He  snatched  the  tablets  of  fate  from  his  hands. 
Seized  the  power,  the  control  of  commands. 
Down  flew  Zu,  in  a  mountain  he  hid. 
There  was  angfuish  and  crying. 
On  the  earth  Bel  poured  out  his  wrath. 
Anu  opened  his  mouth  and  spake. 
Said  to  the  gods  his  children; — 
Who  will  conquer  Zu? 

Great  shall  be  his  name  among  the   dwellers   of  all   lands. 
They  called  for  Ramman,  the  mighty,  Ann's  son. 
To  him  g^ves  Anu  command:  — 
Up,  Ramman,  my  son,  thou  hero. 
From     thine     attack     desist     not,    conquer     Zu     with     thy 

weapons,  [gods. 

That  thy  name  may  be  great  in  the  assembly  of  the  great 
Among  the  gods  thy  brethren,  none  shall  be  thy  equal. 
Thy  shrines  on  high  shall  be  built; 
Found  thee  cities  in  all  the  world; 
Thy  cities  shall  reach  to  the  mountain  of  the  world; 
Show  thyself  strong  for  the  gods,  strong  be  thy  name! 
To    Anu    his    father's    command    Ramman    answered    and 

spake : — 
My  father,  who  shall  come  to  the  inaccessible  mound.' 
Who  is  like  unto  Zu  among  the  gods  thy  sons? 
The  tablets  of  fate  he  has  snatched  from  his  hands. 
Seized  on  the  power,  the  control  of  commands. 
2u  has  fled  and  hides  in  his  mountain. 

[The  rest  is  lost.] 


76  ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 

VIII.    ADAPA   AND   THE  SOUTHWIND 

UNDER  the  water  the  Southwind  blew  him 
Sunk  him  to  the  home  of  the  fishes.  * 

O   Southwind,    ill   hast   thou  used    me,    thy  wings   I 
will  break. 
As  thus  with  his  mouth  he  spake  the  wings  of  the  South- 
wind  were  broken. 
Seven   days  long   the    Southwind  over   the   earth   blew  no 

more. 
To  his  messenger  Ila-Abrat 
Anu  then  spake  thus:  — 
Why  for  seven  days  long 
Blows  the  Southwind  no  more  on  the  earth  ? 
His  messenger  Ila-Abrat  answered  and  said:  My  lord, 
Adapa,  Ea's  son,  hath  broken  the  wings  of  the  Southwind. 
When  Anu  heard  these  words. 
<<  Aha  !  *>  he  cried,  and  went  forth. 

[Ea,  the  ocean-god,  then  directs  his  son  how  to  proceed  in  order  to  avert 
Anu's  wrath.     Some  lines  are  mutilated.] 

At  the  gate  of  Anu  stand. 

The  gods  Tammuz  and  Iszida  will  see  thee  and  ask:  — 

Why  lookest  thou  thus,  Adapa, 

For  whom  wearest  thou  garments  of  mourning  ? 

From    the    earth   two  gods   have   vanished,   therefore   do   I 

thus. 
Who  are  these  two  gods  who  from  the  earth  have  vanished  ? 
At    each   other  they   will   look,    Tammuz   and    Iszida,    and 

lament. 
A  friendly  word  they  will  speak  to  Anu 
Anu's  sacred  face  they  will  show  thee. 
When  thou  to  Anu  comest. 

Food  of  death  will  be  offered  thee,  eat  not  thereof. 
Water  of  death  will  be  offered  thee,  drink  not  thereof. 
A  garment  will  be  offered  thee,  put  it  on. 
Oil  will  be  offered  thee,  anoint  thyself  therewith. 
What  I  tell  thee  neglect  not,  keep  my  word  in  mind. 
Then  came  Anu's  messenger:  — 
The  wing  of  the  Southwind  Adapa  has  broken, 
Deliver  him  up  to  me. 

Up  to  heaven  he  came,  approached  the  gate  of  Ann. 
At  Anu's  gate  Tammuz  and  Iszida  stand, 
Adapa  they  see,  and  *  Aha  !  '*  they  cry. 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 


77 


O  Adapa,  wherefore  lookest  thou  thus, 

For  whom  wearest  thou  apparel  of  mourning? 

From  the  earth  two  gods  have  vanished 

Therefore  I  wear  apparel  of  mourning. 

Who  are  these  two  gods  who  from  the  earth  have  vanished  ? 

At  one  another  look  Tammuz  and  Iszida  and  lament. 

Adapa  go  hence  to  Anu. 

When  he  came,  Anu  at  him  looked,  saying,  O  Adapa, 

Why  hast  thou  broken  the  Southwind's  wing? 

Adapa  answered:   My  lord, 

'Fore  my  lord's  house  I  was  fishing. 

In  the  midst  of  the  sea,  it  was  smooth. 

Then  the  Southwind  began  to  blow 

Under  it  forced  me,  to  the  home  of  the  fishes  I  sank. 

[By  this  speech  Anu's  anger  is  turned  away.] 

A  beaker  he  set  before  him. 

What  shall  we  offer  him  ?    Food  of  life 

Prepare  for  him  that  he  may  eat. 

Food  of  life  was  brought  for  him,  but  he  ate  not. 

Water  of  life  was  brought  for  him,  but  he  drank  not 

A  garment  was  brought  him,  he  put  it  on, 

Oil  they  gave  him,  he  anointed  himself  therewith. 

Anu  looked  at  him  and  mourned:  — 

And  now,  Adapa,  wherefore 

Has  thou  not  eaten  or  drunken  ? 

Now  canst  thou  not  live  forever    .    •    « 

Ea,  my  lord,  commanded  me: — 

Thou  shalt  not  eat  nor  drink. 

IX.     PENITENTIAL   PSALMS 

I 

The  Suppliant: 

I   THY  servant,  full  of  sin  cry  to  thee. 
The  sinner's  earnest  prayer  thou  dost  accept. 
The  man  on  whom  thou  lookest  lives, 
Mistress  of  all,  queen  of  mankind. 
Merciful  one,  to  whom  it  is  good  to  turn. 
Who  acceptest  the  sigh  of  the  heart. 

The  Priest: 

Because  his  god  and  his  goddess  are  angry,  he  cries 

to  thee. 
To  him  turn  thy  face,  take  his  hand. 


78  ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND   ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 

The  Suppliant: 

Beside  thee  there  is  no  god  to  guide  me. 

Look  in  mercy  on  me,  accept  my  sigh, 

Say  why  do  I  wait  so  long. 

Let  thy  face  be  softened! 

How  long,  O  my  lady! 

May  thy  kindness  be  turned  to  me  I 

Like  a  dove  I  mourn,  full  of  sighing. 

The  Priest: 

With  sorrow  and  woe 

His  soul  is  full  of  sighing. 

Tears  he  sheds,  he  pours  out  laments. 


O  mother  of  the  gods,  who  performest  the  commands  of  Bel 

Who  makest  the  young  grass  sprout,  queen  of  mankind, 

Creator  of  all,  guide  of  every  birth. 

Mother  Ishtar,  whose  might  no  god  approaches, 

Exalted  mistress,  mighty  in  command! 

A  prayer  I  will  utter,  let  her  do  what  seems  her  good. 

O  my  lady,  make  me  to  know  my  doing. 

Food  I  have  not  eaten,  weeping  was  my  nourishment. 

Water  I  have  not  drunk,  tears  were  my  drink. 

My  heart  has  not  been  joyful  nor  my  spirits  glad. 

Many  are  my  sins,  sorrowful  my  soul. 

O  my  lady,  make  me  to  know  my  doing. 

Make  me  a  place  of  rest. 

Cleanse  my  sin,  lift  up  my  face. 

May  my  god,  the  lord  of  prayer,  before  thee    set  my  prayer! 

May  my  goddess,  the  lady  of  supplication,  before  thee  set  my 

supplication ! 
May  the  storm-god  set  my  prayer  before  thee! 

[The  intercession  of  a  number  of  gods  is  here  invoked.] 

Let  thy  eye  rest  graciously  on  me.     ... 

Turn  thy  face  graciously  to  me,     ... 

Let  thy  heart  be  gentle,  thy  spirit  mild.     ... 

ni 

O  lady,  in  sorrow  of  heart  sore  oppressed  I  cry  to  thee. 
O  lady,  to  thy  servant  favor  show. 
Let  thy  heart  be  favorable, 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE  yg 

To  thy  servant  full  of  sorrow  show  thy  pity, 
Turn  to  him  thy  face,  accept  his  prayer. 


To  thy  servant  with  whom  thou  art  angry  graciously  turn. 
May  the  anger  of  my  lord  be  appeased, 
Appeased  the  god  I  know  not! 
The  goddess  I  know,  the  goddess  I  know  not. 
The  god  who  was  angry  with  me, 
The  goddess  who  was  angry  with  me  be  appeased! 
The  sin  which  I  have  committed  I  know  not. 
May  my  god  name  a  gracious  name. 
My  goddess  name  a  gracious  name, 
The  god  I  know,  the  god  I  know  not 
Name  a  gracious  name. 

The  goddess  I  know,  the  goddess  I  know  not 
Name  a  gracious  name! 
Pure  food  I  have  not  eaten, 
Pure  water  I  have  not  drunk, 

The  wrath  of  my  god,  though  I  knew  it  not,  was  my  food, 
The  anger  of  my  goddess,  though  I  knew  it  not,  cast  me 
down. 

0  lord,  many  are  my  sins,  great  my  misdeeds. 

[These  phrases  are  repeated  many  times.] 

The  lord  has  looked  on  me  in  anger. 
The  god  has  punished  me  in  wrath, 

The  goddess  was  angry  with  me  and  hath  brought  me  to 
sorrow.  ' 

1  sought  for  help,  but  no  one  took  my  hand, 
I  wept,  but  no  one  to  me  came, 

I  cry  aloud,  there  is  none  that  hears  me. 

Sorrowful  I  lie  on  the  ground,  look  not  up. 

To  my  merciful  god  I  turn,  I  sigh  aloud, 

The  feet  of  my  goddess  I  kiss  [.] 

To  the  known  and  unknown  god  I  loud  do  sigh, 

To  the  known  and  unknown  goddess  I  loud  do  sigh, 

O  lord,  look  on  me,  hear  my  prayer, 

O  goddess,  look  on  me,  hear  my  prayer. 

Men  are  perverse,  nothing  they  know. 
Men  of  every  name,  what  do  they  know? 
Do  they  good  or  ill,  nothing  they  know. 
O  lord,  cast  not  down  thy  servant! 


8o  ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND   ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 

Him,  plunged  into  the  flood,  seize  by  the  hand! 

The  sin  I  have  committed  turn  thou  to  favor! 

The  evil  I  have  done  may  the  wind  carry  it  away! 

Tear  in  pieces  my  wrong-doings  like  a  garment! 
My  god,  my  sins  are  seven  times  seven — forgive  my  sins! 
My  goddess,  my  sins  are  seven  times  seven — forgive  my  sins! 
Known  and  unknown   god,   my  sins   are   seven   times   seven — forgive 

my  sins! 
Known  and  unknown  goddess,  my  sins  are  seven  times  seven  —  forgive 

my  sins! 
Forgive  my  sins,  and  I  will  humbly  bow  before  thee. 


May  the  lord,  the  mighty  ruler  Adar,  announce  my  prayer  to  thee! 

May  the  suppliant  lady  Nippur  announce  my  prayer  to  thee ! 

May  the  lord  of  heaven  and  earth,  the  lord  of  Eridu,  announce  my 
prayer  to  thee! 

The  mother  of  the  great  house,  the  goddess  Damkina,  announce  my 
prayer  to  thee! 

May  Marduk,  the  lord  of  Babylon,  announce  my  prayer  to  thee! 

May  his  consort,  the  exalted  child  of  heaven  and  earth,  announce  my 
prayer  to  thee! 

May  the  exalted  minister,  the  god  who  names  the  good  name,  an- 
nounce my  prayer  to  thee ! 

May  the  bride,  the  first-born  of  the  god,  announce  my  prayer  to  thee! 

May  the  god  of  storm-flood,  the  lord  Harsaga,  announce  my  prayer 
to  thee! 

Vlay  the  gracious  lady  of  the  land  announce  my  prayer  to  thee! 


X.     INSCRIPTION   OF   SENNACHERIB 
(Taylor-cylinder,  B.C.  701.     Cf.  2  Kings  xviii.,  xix.) 

SENNACHERIB,  the  great  king,  the  powerful  king, 
The  king  of  the  world,  the  king  of  Assyria, 
The  king  of  the  four  zones. 
The  wise  shepherd,  the  favorite  of  the  great  gods. 
The  protector  of  justice,  the  lover  of  righteousness. 
The  giver  of  help,  the  aider  of  the  weak, 
The  perfect  hero,  the  stalwart  warrior,  the  first  of  princes. 
The  destroyer  of  the  rebellious,  the  destroyer  of  enemies  — 
Assur,  the  mighty  rock,  a  kingdom  without  rival  has  granted 
me, 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND   ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE  gj 

Over  all  who  sit  on  sacred  seats  he  has  exalted  my  arms, 
From  the  upper  sea  of  the  setting  sun 
To  the  lower  sea  of  the  rising  sun. 

All  the  blackheaded  people  he  has  cast  beneath  my  feet, 
The  rebellious  princes  shun  battle  with  me. 
They  forsook  their  dwellings;  like  a  falcon 
Which   dwells  in   the   clefts,  they   fled  alone  to  an  inaccessi- 
ble place. 

To  the  city  of  Ekron  I  went. 

The  governors  and  princes  who  had  done  evil  I  slew, 

I  bound  their  corpses  to  poles  around  the  city. 

The  inhabitants  of  the  city  who  had  done  evil  I  reckoned  as 
spoil ; 

To  the  rest  who  had  done  no  wrong  I  spoke  peace. 

Padi,  their  king,  I  brought  from  Jerusalem, 

King  over  them  I  made  him. 

The  tribute  of  my  lordship  I  laid  upon  him, 

Hezekiah  of  Judah,  who  had  not  submitted  to  me. 

Forty-six  of  his  strong  cities,  small  cities   without  number,  I 
besieged. 

Casting  down  the  walls,  advancing  engines,  by  assault  I  took 
them. 

Two    hundred    thousand,    one    hundred    and    fifty   men   and 
women,  young  and  old, 

Horses,  mules,  asses,  camels,  oxen,  sheep, 

I  brought  out  and  reckoned  as  spoil. 

Hezekiah  himself  I  shut  up  like  a  caged  bird 

In  Jerusalem,  his  royal  city, 

The  walls  I  fortified  against  him, 

Whoever  came  out  of  the  gates  I  turned  him  back. 

His  cities  which  I  had  plundered  I  divided  from  his  land 

And  gave  them  to  Mitinti,  king  of  Ashdod, 

To  Padi,  king  of  Ekron,  and  to  Silbal,  king  of  Gaza. 

To  the  former  tribute  paid  yearly 

I  added  the  tribute  of  alliance  of  my  lordship  and 

Laid  that  upon  him.     Hezekiah  himself 

Was  overwhelmed  by  the  fear  of  the  brightness  of  my  lord- 
ship. 

The  Arabians  and  his  other  faithful  warriors 

Whom,  for  the  defence  of  Jerusalem,  his  royal  city, 

He  had  brought  in,  fell  into  fear. 

With   thirty   talents    of    gold    and    eight    hundred    talents  of 
silver,  precious  stones, 
1—6 


82  ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN    LITERATURE 

Couches  of  ivory,  thrones  of  ivory, 

And  his  daughters,  his  women  of  the  palace. 

The  young  men  and  the  young  women,  to  Nineveh,  the  city 

of  my  lordship, 
I  caused  to  be  brought  after  me,  and  he  sent  his  ambassadors 
To  give  tribute  and  to  pay  homage. 


XI.     INVOCATION   TO  THE   GODDESS   BELTIS 

To   Beltis,  the  great  Lady,  chief  of  heaven   and   earth. 
Queen  of  all  the  gods,  mighty  in  all  the  lands. 
Honored  is  her  festival  among  the  Ishtars. 
She  surpasses  her  offspring  in  power. 
She,  the  shining  one,  like  her  brother,  the  sun, 
Enlightens  Heaven  and  earth. 
Mistress  of  the  spirits  of  the  underworld, 
First-born  of  Anu,  great  among  the  gods, 
Ruler  over  her  enemies, 
The  seas  she  stirs  up. 

The  wooded  mountains  tramples  under  foot. 
Mistress  of  the  spirits  of  upper  air. 
Goddess  of  battle  and  fight. 
Without  whom  the  heavenly  temple 
None  would  render  obedience, 
She,    the    bestower   of   strength,    grants   the  desire  of  the 

faithful. 
Prayers  she  hears,  supplication  receives,  entreaty  accepts. 
Ishtar,  the  perfect  light,  all-powerful. 
Who  enlightens  Heaven  and  earth. 
Her  name  is  proclaimed  throughout  all  the  lands, 
Esarhaddon,  king  of  lands,  fear  not. 
To  her  it  is  good  to  pray. 

XII.     ORACLES  OF   ISHTAR  OF  ARBELA 
(B.C.   680-668) 

ESARHADDON,  king  of  lands,  fear  not. 
The  lord,  the  spirit  who  speaks  to  thee  v 

I  speak  to  him,  I  have  not  kept  it  back. 
Thine  enemies,  like  the  floods  of  Sivan 
Before  thee  flee  perpetually. 
I  the  great  goddess,  Ishtar  of  Arbela 
Have  put  thine  enemies  to  flight. 


ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN  AND  ASSYRIAN  LITERATURE  83 

Where  are  the  words  I  spake  to  thee  ? 

Thou  hast  not  trusted  them. 

I,  Ishtar  of  Arbela,  thy  foes 

Into  thy  hands  I  give 

In  the  van  and  by  thy  side  I  go,  fear  not 

In  the  midst  of  thy  princes  thou  art. 

In  the  midst  of  my  host  I  advance  and  rest. 

O  Esarhaddon,  fear  not. 

Sixty  great  gods  are  with  me  to  guard  thee. 

The  Moon-god  on  thy  right,  the  Sun-god  on  thy  left. 

Around  thee  stand  the  sixty  great  gods. 

And  make  the  centre  firm. 

Trust  not  to  man,  look  thou  to  me 

Honor  me  and  fear  not. 

To  Esarhaddon,  my  king. 

Long  days  and  length  of  years  I  give. 

Thy  throne  beneath  the  heavens  I  have  established; 

In  a  golden  dwelling  thee  I  will  guard  in  heaven 

Guard  like  the  diadem  of  my  head. 

The  former  word  which  I  spake  thou  didst  not  trust. 

But  trust  thou  now  this  later  word  and  glorify  me, 

"When  the  day  dawns  bright  complete  thy  sacrifice. 

Pure  food  thou  shalt  eat,  pure  waters  drink, 

In  thy  palace  thou  shalt  be  pure. 

Thy  son,  thy  son's  son  the  kingdom 

By  the  blessing  of  Nergal  shall  rule. 


XIII.    AN   ERECHITE'S   LAMENT 

How    long,    O    my    Lady,    shall    the    strong    enemy    hold  thy 
sanctuary  ? 
There  is  want  in  Erech,  thy  principal  city; 
Blood  is  flowing  like  water  in  Eulbar,  the  house  ot  thy  oracle; 
He  has   kindled    and   poured   out    fire   like  hailstones  on  all  thy 

lands. 
My  Lady,  sorely  am  I  fettered  by  misfortune; 
My  Lady,  thou  hast  surrounded  me,  and  brought  me  to  grief. 
The  mighty  enemy  has  smitten  me  down  like  a  single  reed. 
Not  wise  myself,  I  cannot  take  counsel; 
I  mourn  day  and  night  like  the  fields. 
I,  thy  servant,  pray  to  thee. 
Let  thy  heart  take  rest,  let  thy  disposition  be  softened.  y 


84 


ABIGAIL   ADAMS 

(1744-1818) 

BY    LUCIA  GILBERT    RUNKLE 

i^HE  Constitution  of  the  State  of  Massachusetts,  adopted  in  the 
year  1780,  contains  an  article  for  the  Encouragement  of 
Literature,  which,  it  declares,  should  be  fostered  because  its 
influence  is  ^Ho  countenance  and  inculcate  the  principles  of  humanity 
and  general  benevolence,  public  and  private  charity,  industry  and  fru- 
gality, honesty  and  punctuality  in  dealings,  sincerity  and  good  humor, 
and  all  social  affections  and  generous  sentiments  among  the  people.''' 
In  these  words,  as  in  a  mirror,  is  reflected  the  Massachusetts  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  where  households  like 
the  Adamses',  the  Warrens',  the  Otises', 
made  the  standard  of  citizenship.  Six 
years  before  this  remarkable  document 
was  framed,  Abigail  Adams  had  written 
to  her  husband,  then  engaged  in  nation- 
making  in  Philadelphia :  —  "I  most  sincerely 
wish  that  some  more  liberal  plan  might 
be  laid  and  executed  for  the  benefit  of 
the  rising  generation,  and  that  our  new 
Constitution  may  be  distinguished  for  en- 
couraging learning  and  virtue.**  And  he, 
spending  his  days  and  nights  for  his  coun- 
try,    sacrificing   his    profession,    giving    up 

the  hope  of  wealth,  writes  her: — <'I  believe  my  children  will  think 
that  I  might  as  well  have  labored  a  little,  night  and  day,  for  their 
benefit.  But  I  will  tell  them  that  I  studied  and  labored  to  procure 
a  free  constitution  of  government  for  them  to  solace  themselves 
under;  and  if  they  do  not  prefer  this  to  ample  fortune,  to  ease  and 
elegance,  they  are  not  my  children.  They  shall  live  upon  thin  diet, 
wear  mean  clothes,  and  work  hard  with  cheerful  hearts  and  free 
spirits,  or  they  may  be  the  children  of  the  earth,  or  of  no  one, 
for  me.** 

In  old  Weymouth,  one  of  those  quiet  Massachusetts  towns,  half- 
hidden  among  the  umbrageous  hills,  where  the  meeting-house  and  the 
school-house  rose  before  the  settlers'  cabins  were  built,  where  the  one 
elm-shaded  main  street  stretches  its  breadth  between  two  lines  of 
self-respecting,  isolated  frame  houses,  each  with  its  grassy  dooryard, 
its  lilac  bushes,  its  fresh-painted  offices,  its  decorous  wood-pile   laid 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS 


85 


with  architectural  balance  and  symmetry,  —  there,  in  the  dignified 
parsonage,  on  the  nth  of  November,  1744,  was  born  to  Parson  William 
Smith  and  Elizabeth  his  wife,  Abigail,  the  second  of  three  beautiful 
daughters.  Her  mother  was  a  Quincy,  of  a  distinguished  line,  and 
her  mother  was  a  Norton,  of  a  strain  not  less  honorable.  Nor  were 
the  Smiths  unimportant. 

In  that  day  girls  had  little  instruction.  Abigail  says  of  herself,  in 
one  of  her  letters:  —  ^*I  never  was  sent  to  any  school.  Female  educa- 
tion, in  the  best  families,  went  no  further  than  writing  and  arithmetic; 
in  some  few  and  rare  instances,  music  and  dancing.  It  was  fashion- 
able to  ridicule  female  learning.^*  But  the  household  was  bookish. 
Her  mother  knew  the  *  British  Poets  >*  and  all  the  literature  of  Queen 
Anne's  Augustan  age.  Her  beloved  grandmother  Quincy,  at  Mount 
Wollaston,  seems  to  have  had  both  learning  and  wisdom,  and  to  her 
father  she  owed  the  sense  of  fun,  the  shrewdness,  the  clever  way  of 
putting  things  which  make  her  letters  so  delightful. 

The  good  parson  was  skillful  in  adapting  Scripture  to  special  exi- 
gencies, and  throughout  the  Revolution  he  astonished  his  hearers  by 
the  peculiar  fitness  of  his  texts  to  political  uses.  It  is  related  of  him 
that  when  his  eldest  daughter  married  Richard  Cranch,  he  preached 
to  his  people  from  Luke,  tenth  chapter,  forty-second  verse:  <^And 
Mary  hath  chosen  that  good  part  which  shall  not  be  taken  away 
from  her.**  When,  a  year  later,  young  John  Adams  came  courting 
the  brilliant  Abigail,  the  parish,  which  assumed  a  right  to  be  heard 
on  the  question  of  the  destiny  of  the  minister's  daughter,  grimly  ob- 
jected. He  was  upright,  singularly  abstemious,  studious;  but  he  was 
poor,  he  was  the  son  of  a  small  farmer,  and  she  was  of  the  gentry. 
He  was  hot-headed  and  somewhat  tactless,  and  offended  his  critics. 
Worst  of  all,  he  was  a  lawyer,  and  the  prejudice  of  colonial  society 
reckoned  a  lawyer  hardly  honest.  He  won  this  most  important  of 
his  cases,  however,  and  Parson  Smith's  marriage  sermon  for  the  bride 
of  nineteen  was  preached  from  the  text,  <<For  John  came  neither 
eating  bread  nor  drinking  wine,  and  ye  say.  He  hath  a  devil.** 

For  ten  years  Mrs.  Adams  seems  to  have  lived  a  most  happy  life, 
either  in  Boston  or  Braintree,  her  greatest  g^rief  being  the  frequent 
absences  of  her  husband  on  circuit.  His  letters  to  her  are  many  and 
delightful,  expressing  again  and  again,  in  the  somewhat  formal 
phrases  of  the  period,  his  affection  and  admiration.  She  wrote 
seldom,  her  household  duties  and  the  care  of  the  children,  of  whom 
there  were  four  in  ten  years,  occupying  her  busy  hands. 

Meanwhile,  the  clouds  were  growing  black  in  the  political  sky. 
Mr.  Adams  wrote  arguments  and  appeals  in  the  news  journals  over 
Latin  signatures,  papers  of  instructions  to  Representatives  to  the 
General   Court,   and  legal  portions   of  the  controversy  between   the 


86  ABIGAIL  ADAMS 

delegates  and  Governor  Hutchinson.  In  all  this  work  Mrs.  Adams 
constantly  sympathized  and  advised.  In  August,  1774,  he  went  to 
Philadelphia  as  a  delegate  to  a  general  council  of  the  colonies  called 
to  concert  measures  for  united  action.  And  now  begins  the  famous 
correspondence,  which  goes  on  for  a  period  of  nine  years,  which  was 
intended  to  be  seen  only  by  the  eyes  of  her  husband,  which  she 
begs  him,  again  and  again,  to  destroy  as  not  worth  the  keeping,  yet 
which  has  given  her  a  name  and  place  among  the  world's  most  charm- 
ing letter-writers. 

Her  courage,  her  cheerfulness,  her  patriotism,  her  patience  never 
fail  her.  Braintree,  where,  with  her  little  brood,  she  is  to  stay,  is 
close  to  the  British  lines.  Raids  and  foraging  expeditions  are  immi- 
nent. Hopes  of  a  peaceful  settlement  grow  dim.  <<What  course  you 
can  or  will  take,*  she  writes  her  husband,  "is  all  wrapped  in  the 
bosom  of  futurity.  Uncertainty  and  expectation  leave  the  mind  great 
scope.  Did  ever  any  kingdom  or  State  regain  its  liberty,  when  once 
it  was  invaded,  without  bloodshed?  I  cannot  think  of  it  without  hor- 
ror. Yet  we  are  told  that  all  the  misfortunes  of  Sparta  were  occas- 
ioned by  their  too  great  solicitude  for  present  tranquillity,  and,  from 
an  excessive  love  of  peace,  they  neglected  the  means  of  making  it 
sure  and  lasting.  They  ought  to  have  reflected,  says  Polybius,  that, 
*as  there  is  nothing  more  desirable  or  advantageous  than  peace,  when 
founded  in  justice  and  honor,  so  there  is  nothing  more  shameful,  and 
at  the  same  time  more  pernicious,  when  attained  by  bad  measures, 
and  purchased  at  the  price  of  liberty.  *  * 

Thus  in  the  high  Roman  fashion  she  faces  danger;  yet  her  sense 
of  fun  never  deserts  her,  and  in  the  very  next  letter  she  writes, 
parodying  her  husband's  documents :  — "  The  drouth  has  been  very 
severe.  My  poor  cows  will  certainly  prefer  a  petition  to  you,  setting 
forth  their  grievances,  and  informing  you  that  they  have  been  de- 
prived of  their  ancient  privileges,  whereby  they  are  become  great 
sufferers,  and  desiring  that  these  may  be  restored  to  them.  More 
especially  as  their  living,  by  reason  of  the  drouth,  is  all  taken  from 
them,  and  their  property  which  they  hold  elsewhere  is  decaying,  they 
humbly  pray  that  you  would  consider  them,  lest  hunger  should  break 
through  stone  walls.'* 

By  midsummer  the  small  hardships  entailed  by  the  British  occu- 
pation of  Boston  were  most  vexatious.  "  We  shall  very  soon  have  no 
coffee,  nor  sugar,  nor  pepper,  but  whortleberries  and  milk  we  are 
not  obliged  to  commerce  for,*  she  writes,  and  in  letter  after  letter 
she  begs  for  pins.  Needles  are  desperately  needed,  but  without  pins 
how  can  domestic  life  go  on,  and  not  a  pin  in  the  province! 

On  the  14th  of  September  she  describes  the  excitement  in  Boston, 
the  Governor  mounting  cannon  on  Beacon  Hill,  digging  intrenchmenta 


ABIGAIL   ADAMS 


87 


on  the  Neck,  planting  gtins,  throwing  up  breastworks,  encamping  a 
regiment.  In  consequence  of  the  powder  being  taken  from  Charles- 
town,  she  goes  on  to  say,  a  general  alarm  spread  through  all  the 
towns  and  was  soon  caught  in  Braintree.  And  then  she  describes 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary  scenes  in  history.  About  eight  o'clock 
on  Sunday  evening,  she  writes  to  her  husband,  at  least  two  hundred 
men,  preceded  by  a  horse-cart,  passed  by  her  door  in  dead  silence, 
and  marched  down  to  the  powder-house,  whence  they  took  out  the 
town's  powder,  because  they  dared  not  trust  it  where  there  were  so 
many  Tories,  carried  it  into  the  other  parish,  and  there  secreted  it. 
On  their  way  they  captured  a  notorious  <<  King's  man,*>  and  found  on 
him  two  warrants  aimed  at  the  Commonwealth.  When  their  patriotic 
trust  was  discharged,  they  turned  their  attention  to  the  trembling 
Briton.  Profoundly  excited  and  indignant  though  they  were,  they 
never  thought  of  mob  violence,  but,  true  to  the  inherited  instincts  of 
their  race,  they  resolved  themselves  into  a  public  meeting!  The 
hostile  warrants  being  produced  and  exhibited,  it  was  put  to  a  vote 
whether  they  should  be  burned  or  preserved.  The  majority  voted 
for  burning  them.  Then  the  two  hundred  gathered  in  a  circle  round 
the  single  lantern,  and  maintained  a  rigid  silence  while  the  offending 
papers  were  consumed.  That  done  —  the  blazing  eyes  in  that  grim 
circle  of  patriots  watching  the  blazing  writs  —  <*  they  called  a  vote 
whether  they  should  huzza;  but,  it  being  Sunday  evening,  it  passed 
in  the  negative!'* 

Only  in  the  New  England  of  John  Winthrop  and  the  Mathers,  of 
John  Quincy  and  the  Adamses,  would  such  a  scene  have  been  pos- 
sible: a  land  of  self-conquest  and  self-control,  of  a  deep  love  of  the 
public  welfare  and  a  willingness  to  take  trouble  for  a  public  object. 

A  little  later  Mrs.  Adams  writes  her  husband  that  there  has  been 
a  conspiracy  among  the  negroes,  though  it  has  been  kept  quiet.  *I 
wish  most  sincerely,**  she  adds,  "that  there  was  not  a  slave  in  the 
province.  It  always  appeared  a  most  iniquitous  scheme  to  me  —  to 
fight  ourselves  for  what  we  are  daily  robbing  and  plundering  from 
those  who  have  as  good  a  right  to  freedom  as  we  have.** 

Nor  were  the  sympathies  of  this  clever  logician  confined  to 
the  slaves.  A  month  or  two  before  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
was  made  she  writes  her  constructive  statesman :  —  "I  long  to  hear 
that  you  have  declared  an  independence.  And  by  the  way,  in  the 
new  code  of  laws  which  I  suppose  it  will  be  necessary  for  you  to 
make,  I  desire  you  would  remember  the  ladies,  and  be  more  gener- 
ous and  favorable  to  them  than  your  ancestors.  Do  not  put  such  un- 
limited power  into  the  hands  of  the  husbands!  Remember,  all  men 
would  be  tyrants  if  they  could!  If  particular  care  and  attention  is 
not  paid  to  the  ladies,  we  are  determined  to  foment  a  rebellion,  and 


88  ABIGAIL   ADAMS 

will  not  hold  ourselves  bound  by  any  laws  in  which  we  have  no  voice 
or  representation.  That  your  sex  are  naturally  tyrannical  is  a  truth 
so  thoroughly  established  as  to  admit  of  no  dispute;  but  such  of  you 
as  wish  to  be  happy  willingly  give  up  the  harsh  title  of  master  for 
the  more  tender  and  endearing  one  of  friend.  Why,  then,  not  put 
it  out  of  the  power  of  the  vicious  and  the  lawless  to  use  us  with 
cruelty  and  indignity  with  impunity  ?  Men  of  sense  in  all  ages  abhor 
those  customs  which  treat  us  only  as  the  vassals  of  your  sex.  Regard 
us,  then,  as  being  placed  by  Providence  under  your  protection;  and 
in  imitation  of  the  Supreme  Being,  make  use  of  that  power  only  for 
our  happiness,'* — a  declaration  of  principles  which  the  practical  house- 
wife follows  up  by  saying:  —  «I  have  not  yet  attempted  making  salt- 
petre, but  after  soap-making,  believe  I  shall  make  the  experiment.  I 
find  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  manufacture  clothing  for  my  family, 
which  would  else  be  naked.  I  have  lately  seen  a  small  manuscript 
describing  the  proportions  of  the  various  sorts  of  powder  fit  for  can- 
non, small  arms,  and  pistols.  If  it  would  be  of  any  service  your 
way,  I  will  get  it  transcribed  and  send  it  to  you.** 

She  is  interested  in  everything,  and  she  writes  about  everything 
in  the  same  whole-hearted  way, — farming,  paper  money,  the  mak- 
ing of  molasses  from  corn-stalks,  the  new  remedy  of  inoculation, 
^  Common  Sense  *  and  its  author,  the  children's  handwriting,  the  state 
of  Harvard  College,  the  rate  of  taxes,  the  most  helpful  methods 
of  enlistment,  Chesterfield's  Letters,  the  town  elections,  the  higher 
education  of  women,  and  the  getting  of  homespun  enough  for  Mr. 
Adams's  new  suit. 

She  manages,  with  astonishing  skill,  to  keep  the  household  in 
comfort.  She  goes  through  trials  of  sickness,  death,  agonizing  sus- 
pense, and  ever  with  the  same  heroic  cheerfulness,  that  her  anxious 
husband  may  be  spared  the  pangs  which  she  endures.  When  he  is 
sent  to  France  and  Holland,  she  accepts  the  new  parting  as  another 
service  pledged  to  her  country.  She  sees  her  darling  boy  of  ten  go 
with  his  father,  aware  that  at  the  best  she  must  bear  months  of 
silence,  knowing  that  they  may  perish  at  sea  or  fall  into  the  hands 
of  privateers;  but  she  writes  with  indomitable  cheer,  sending  the  lad 
tender  letters  of  good  advice,  a  little  didactic  to  modern  taste,  but 
throbbing  with  affection.  <^  Dear  as  you  are  to  me,  **  says  this  tender 
mother,  <*  I  would  much  rather  you  should  have  found  your  grave  in 
the  ocean  you  have  crossed  than  see  you  an  immoral,  profligate,  or 
graceless   child.** 

It  was  the  lot  of  this  country  parson's  daughter  to  spend  three 
years  in  London  as  wife  of  the  first  American  minister,  to  see  her 
husband  Vice-President  of  the  United  States  for  eight  years  and  Pres- 
ident for  four,  and  to  greet  her   son  as  the   eminent  Monroe's  valued 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS 


89 


Secretary  of  State,  though  she  died,  <' seventy-four  years  young," 
before  he  became  President.  She  could  not,  in  any  station,  be  more 
truly  a  lady  than  when  she  made  soap  and  chopped  kindling  on  her 
Braintree  farm.  At  Braintree  she  was  no  more  simply  modest  than 
at  the  Court  of  St.  James  or  in  the  Executive  Mansion.  Her  letters 
exactly  reflect  her  ardent,  sincere,  energetic  nature.  She  shows  a 
charming  delight  when  her  husband  tells  her  that  his  affairs  could 
not  possibly  be  better  managed  than  she  manages  them,  and  that  she 
shines  not  less  as  a  statesman  than  as  a  farmeress.  And  though  she 
was  greatly  admired  and  complimented,  no  praise  so  pleased  her  as 
his  declaration  that  for  all  the  ingratitude,  calumnies,  and  misunder- 
standings that  he  had  endured, —  and  they  were  numberless, — her 
perfect  comprehension  of  him  had  been  his  sufficient  compensation. 


t:^^     ^^  {/tLe, 


'A^ — 


My  Dearest  Friend: 


TO    HER    HUSBAND 

Braintree,  May  24th,   1775. 


OUR  house  has  been,    upon  this  alarm,    in  the   same   scene  of 
confusion   that   it   was  upon   the   former.      Soldiers  coming 
in  for  a  lodging,   for  breakfast,  for  supper,  for  drink,  etc. 
Sometimes    refugees    from    Boston,    tired   and   fatigued,    seek  an 
asylum    for  a  day,    a  night,  a  week.      You   can   hardly  imagine 
how  we  live;  yet  — 

"To  the  houseless  child  of  want. 
Our  doors  are  open  still; 
And  though  our  portions  are  but  scant. 
We  give  them  with  good  will." 

My  best  wishes  attend  you,  both  for  your  health  and  happiness, 
land  that  you  may  be  directed  into  the  wisest  and  best  measures 
for  our  safety  and  the  security  of  our  posterity.  I  wish  you 
were  nearer  to  us:  we  know  not  what  a  day  will  bring  forth, 
nor  what  distress  one  hour  may  throw  us  into.  Hitherto  I  have 
been  able  to  maintain  a  calmness  and  presence  of  mind,  and 
hope  I  shall,  let  the  exigency  of  the  time  be  what  it  will. 
Adieu,  breakfast  calls. 

Your  afiEectionate  Portia. 


90 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS 


Weymouth,  June  15th,   1775. 

I   HOPE  we   shall   see   each  other  again,  and   rejoice   together  in 
happier  days;  the  little  ones  are  well,  and  send  duty  to  papa. 
Don't  fail  of  letting  me  hear  from  you  by  every  opportunity. 
Every  line  is  like  a  precious  relic  of  the  saints. 

I  have  a  request  to  make  of  you;  something  like  the  barrel 
of  sand,  I  suppose  you  will  think  it,  but  really  of  much  more 
importance  to  me.  It  is,  that  you  would  send  out  Mr.  Bass,  and 
purchase  me  a  bundle  of  pins  and  put  them  in  your  trunk  for 
me.  The  cry  for  pins  is  so  great  that  what  I  used  to  buy  for 
seven  shillings  and  sixpence  are  now  twenty  shillings,  and  not 
to  be  had  for  that.  A  bundle  contains  six  thousand,  for  which 
I  used  to  give  a  dollar;  but  if'  you  can  procure  them  for  fifty 
shillings,  or  three  pounds,  pray  let  me  have  them.  I  am,  with 
the  tenderest  regard,  Your  Portia. 


■'.  Braintree,  June  i8th,   1775. 

My  Dearest  Friend : 

The  day  —  perhaps  the  decisive  day  is  come,  on  which  the 
fate  of  America  depends.  My  bursting  heart  must  find  vent 
at  my  pen.  I  have  just  heard  that  our  dear  friend.  Dr.  Warren, 
is  no  more,  but  fell  gloriously  fighting  for  his  country,  saying, 
*^  Better  to  die  honorably  in  the  field  than  ignominioiisly  hang 
upon  the  gallows.^'  Great  is  our  loss.  He  has  distinguished 
himself  in  every  engagement  by  his'  courage  and  fortitude,  by  ani- 
mating the  soldiers,  and  leading  them  on  by  his  own  example.  A 
particular  account  of  these  dreadful  but,  I  hope,  glorioiis  days, 
will   be   transmitted  you,  no  doubt,  in  the  exactest  manner. 

"The  race  is  not  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong; 
but  the  God  of  Israel  is  He  that  giveth  strength  and  power  unto 
His  people.  Trust  in  Him  at  all  times,  ye  people:  pour  out  your 
hearts  before  Him;  God  is  a  refuge  for  us.*^  Charlestown  is  laid 
in  ashes.  The  battle  began  upon  our  intrenchments  upon  Bunker's 
Hill,  Saturday  morning  about  three  o'clock,  and  has  not  ceased 
yet,  and  it  is  now  three  o'clock  Sabbath  afternoon. 

It  is  expected  they  will  come  out  over  the  Neck  to-night,  and 
a  dreadful  battle  must  ensue.  Almighty  God,  cover  the  heads  of 
our  countrymen,  and  be  a  shield  to  our  dear  friends!     How  many 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS 


91 


have  fallen  we  know  not.  The  constant  roar  of  the  cannon  is  so 
distressing  that  we  cannot  eat,  drink,  or  sleep.  May  we  be  sup- 
ported and  sustained  in  the  dreadful  conflict.  I  shall  tarry  here 
till  it  is  thought  unsafe  by  my  friends,  and  then  I  have  secured 
myself  a  retreat  at  your  brother's,  who  has  kindly  offered  me  part 
of  his  house.  I  cannot  compose  myself  to  write  any  further  at 
present.     I  will  add  more  as  I  hear  further. 

Your  Portia. 

Braintree,  November  27th,   1775. 

COLONEL  Warren  returned  last  week  to  Plymouth,  so  that  I 
shall  not  hear  anything  from  you  until  he  goes  back  again, 
which  will  not  be  till  the  last  of  this  month.  He  damped 
my  spirits  greatly  by  telling  me  that  the  court  had  prolonged 
your  stay  another  month.  I  was  pleasing  myself  with  the  thought 
that  you  would  soon  be  upon  your  return.  It  is  in  vain  to  repine. 
I  hope  the  public  will  reap  what  I  sacrifice. 

I  wish  I  knew  what  mighty  things  were  fabricating.  If  a 
form  of  government  is  to  be  established  here,  what  one  will  be 
assumed  ?  Will  it  be  left  to  our  Assemblies  to  choose  one  ?  And 
will  not  many  men  have  many  minds  ?  And  shall  we  not  run  into 
dissensions  among  ourselves  ? 

I  am  more  and  more  convinced  that  man  is  a  dangerous  creat- 
ure; and  that  power,  whether  vested  in  many  or  a  few,  is  ever 
grasping,  and,  like  the  grave,  cries,  **  Give,  give !  **  The  great  fish 
swallow  up  the  small ;  and  he  who  is  most  strenuous  for  the  rights 
of  the  people,  when  vested  with  power,  is  as  eager  after  the  pre- 
rogatives of  government.  You  tell  me  of  degrees  of  perfection  to 
which  human  nature  is  capable  of  arriving,  and  I  believe  it,  but 
at  the  same  time  lament  that  our  admiration  should  arise  from  the 
scarcity  of  the  instances. 

The  building  up  a  great  empire,  which  was  only  hinted  at  by 
my  correspondent,  may  now,  I  suppose,  be  realized  even  by  the 
unbelievers;  yet  will  not  ten  thousand  difficulties  arise  in  the 
formation  of  it  ?  The  reins  of  government  have  been  so  long 
slackened  that  I  fear  the  people  will  not  quietly  submit  to  those 
restraints  which  are  necessary  for  the  peace  and  security  of  the 
community.  If  we  separate  from  Britain,  what  code  of  laws  will 
be  established  ?  How  shall  we  be  governed  so  as  to  retain  our 
liberties  ?     Can  any  government  be  free  which  is  not  administered 


0  2  ABIGAIL   ADAMS 

by  general  stated  laws  ?  Who  shall  frame  these  laws  ?  Who  will 
give  them  force  and  energy  ?  It  is  true,  your  resolutions,  as  a 
body,  have  hitherto  had  the  force  of  laws;  but  will  they  continue 
to  have  ? 

When  I  consider  these  things,  and  the  prejudices  of  people  in 
favor  of  ancient  customs  and  regulations,  I  feel  anxious  for  the 
fate  of  our  monarchy,  or  democracy,  or  whatever  is  to  take  place. 

1  soon  get  lost  in  the  labyrinth  of  perplexities;  but,  whatever 
occurs,  may  justice  and  righteousness  be  the  stability  of  our  times, 
and  order  arise  out  of  confusion.  Great  difficulties  may  be  sur- 
mounted by  patience  and  perseverance. 

I  believe  I  have  tired  you  with  politics.  As  to  news,  we  have 
not  any  at  all.  I  shudder  at  the  approach  of  winter,  when  I 
think  I  am  to  remain  desolate. 

I  must  bid  you  good-night;  'tis  late  for  me,  who  am  much 
of  an  invalid.  I  was  disappointed  last  week  in  receiving  a  packet 
by  post,  and,  upon  unsealing  it,  finding  only  four  newspapers. 
I  think  you  are  more  cautious  than  you  need  be.  All  letters,  I 
believe,  have  come  safe  to  hand.  I  have  sixteen  from  you,  and 
wish  I  had  as  many  more.  Your  Portia. 

[By  permission  of  the  family.] 

Braintree,  April  2oth,  1777. 

THERE  is  a  general  cry  against  the  merchants,  against  monopo- 
lizers, etc.,  who,  'tis  said,  have  created  a  partial  scarcity. 
That  a  scarcity  prevails  of  every  article,  not  only  of  luxury 
but  even  the  necessaries  of  life,  is  a  certain  fact.  Everything 
bears  an  exorbitant  price.  The  Act,  which  was  in  some  measure 
regarded  and  stemmed  the  torrent  of  oppression,  is  now  no  more 
heeded  than  if  it  had  never  been  made.  Indian  com  at  five  shil- 
lings; rye,  eleven  and  twelve  shillings,  but  scarcely  any  to  be  had 
even  at  that  price;  beef,  eightpence;  veal,  sixpence  and  eight- 
pence;  butter,  one  and  sixpence;  mutton,  none;  lamb,  none;  pork, 
none;  mean  sugar,  four  pounds  per  hundred;  molasses,  none; 
cotton-wool,  none;  New  England  rum,  eight  shillings  per  gallon; 
coffee,  two  and  sixpence  per  pound;  chocolate,  three  shillings. 

What  can  be  done  ?  Will  gold  and  silver  remedy  this  evil  ? 
By  your  accounts  of  board,  housekeeping,  etc.,  I  fancy  you  are 
not  better  off  than  we  are  here.     I  live  in  hopes  that  we  see  the 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS 


93 


most  difficult  time  we  have  to  experience.  Why  is  Carolina  so 
much  better  furnished  than  any  other  State,  and  at  so  reasonable 
prices?  Your  Portia. 


Braintree,  June  8th,  1779. 

SIX  months  have  already  elapsed  since  I  heard  a  syllable  from 
you  or  my  dear  son,  and  five  since  I  have  had  one  single 
opportunity  of  conveying  a  line  to  you.  Letters  of  various 
dates  have  lain  months  at  the  Navy  Board,  and  a  packet  and  frig- 
ate, both  ready  to  sail  at  an  hour's  warning,  have  been  months 
waiting  the  orders  of  Congress.  They  no  doubt  have  their  rea- 
sons, or  ought  to  have,  for  detaining  them.  I  must  patiently  wait 
their  motions,  however  painful  it  is;  and  that  it  is  so,  your  own 
feelings  will  testify.  Yet  I  know  not  but  you  are  less  a  sufferer 
than  you  would  be  to  hear  from  us,  to  know  our  distresses,  and 
yet  be  unable  to  relieve  them.  The  universal  cry  for  bread,  to 
a  humane  heart,  is  painful  beyond  description,  and  the  great  price 
demanded  and  given  for  it  verifies  that  pathetic  passage  of  Sacred 
Writ,  **A11  that  a  man  hath  will  he  give  for  his  life.*  Yet  He 
who  miraculously  fed  a  multitude  with  five  loaves  and  two  fishes 
has  graciously  interposed  in  our  favor,  and  delivered  many  of  the 
enemy's  supplies  into  our  hands,  so  that  our  distresses  have  been 
mitigated.  I  have  been  able  as  yet  to  supply  my  own  family, 
sparingly,  but  at  a  price  that  would  astonish  you.  Com  is  sold  at 
four  dollars,  hard  money,  per  bushel,  which  is  equal  to  eighty  at 
the  rate  of  exchange. 

Labor  is  at  eight  dollars  per  day,  and  in  three  weeks  it  will  be 
at  twelve,  it  is  probable,  or  it  will  be  more  stable  than  anything 
else.  Goods  of  all  kinds  are  at  such  a  price  that  I  hardly  dare 
mention  it.  Linens  are  sold  at  twenty  dollars  per  yard;  the  most 
ordinary  sort  of  calicoes  at  thirty  and  forty;  broadcloths  at  forty 
pounds  per  yard;  West  India  goods  full  as  high;  molasses  at 
twenty  dollars  per  gallon;  sugar,  four  dollars  per  pound;  Bohea 
tea  at  forty  dollars;  and  our  own  produce  in  proportion;  butch- 
er's meat  at  six  and  eight  shillings  per  pound;  board  at  fifty  and 
sixty  dollars  per  week;  rates  high.  That,  I  suppose,  you  will  re- 
joice at;  so  would  I,  did  it  remedy  the  evil.  I  pay  five  hundred 
dollars,  and  a  new  Continental  rate  has  just  appeared,  my  pro- 
portion of  which  will  be  two  hundred  more.  I  have  come  to  this 
determination, —  to   sell  no   more  bills,  unless  I  can  procure  hard 


94 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS 


money  for  them,  although  I  shall  be  obliged  to  allow  a  discount. 
If  I  5ell  for  paper,  I  throw  away  more  than  half,  so  rapid  is  the 
depreciation;  nor  do  I  know  that  it  will  be  received  long.  I  sold 
a  bill  to  Blodget  at  five  for  one,  which  was  looked  upon  as  high 
at  that  time.  The  week  after  I  received  it,  two  emissions  were 
taken  out  of  circulation,  and  the  greater  part  of  what  I  had 
proved  to  be  of  that  sort;  so  that  those  to  whom  I  was  indebted 
are  obliged  to  wait,  and  before  it  becomes  due,  or  is  exchanged, 
it  will  be  good  for  —  as  much  as  it  will  fetch,  which  will  be  noth- 
ing, if  it  goes  on  as  it  has  done  for  this  three  months  past.  I 
will  not  tire  your  patience  any  longer.  I  have  not  drawn  any 
further  upon  you.  I  mean  to  wait  the  return  of  the  Alliance, 
which  with  longing  eyes  I  look  for.  God  grant  it  may  bring 
me  comfortable  tidings  from  my  dear,  dear  friend,  whose  welfare 
is  so  essential  to  my  happiness  that  it  is  entwined  around  my 
heart,  and  cannot  be  impaired  or  separated  from  it  without  rend- 
ing it  asunder.     .     .     . 

I  cannot  say  that  I  think  our  affairs  go  very  well  here.  Our 
currency  seems  to  be  the  source  of  all  our  evils.  We  cannot  fill 
up  our  Continental  army  by  means  of  it.  No  bounty  will  prevail 
with  them.  What  can  be  done  with  it  ?  It  will  sink  in  less  than 
a  year.  The  advantage  the  enemy  daily  gains  over  us  is  owing 
to  this.  Most  truly  did  you  prophesy,  when  you  said  that  they 
would  do  all  the  mischief  in  their  power  with  the  forces  they  had 
here. 

My  tenderest  regards  ever  attend  you.  In  all  places  and  situ- 
ations, know  me  to  be  ever,  ever  yours. 


AuTEUiL,  5th  September,   1784. 
My  Dear  Sister :  ' 

AUTEUIL  is  a  village  four  miles  distant  from  Paris,  and  one  from 
Passy.  The  house  we  have  taken  is  large,  commodious, 
and  agreeably  situated  near  the  woods  of  Boulogne,  which 
belong  to  the  King,  and  which  Mr.  Adams  calls  his  park,  for  he 
walks  an  hour  or  two  every  day  in  them.  The  house  is  much 
larger  than  we  have  need  of;  upon  occasion,  forty  beds  may  be 
made  in  it.  I  fancy  it  must  be  very  cold  in  winter.  There  are 
few  houses  with  the  privilege  which  this  enjoys,  that  of  having 
the  salon,  as  it  is  called,  the  apartment  where  we  receive  com- 
pany, upon  the  first  floor.     This  room  is  very  elegant,  and  about 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS 


95 


a  third  larger  than  General  Warren's  hall.  The  dining-room  is 
upon  the  right  hand,  and  the  salon  upon  the  left,  of  the  entry, 
which  has  large  glass  doors  opposite  to  each  other,  one  opening 
into  the  court,  as  they  call  it,  the  other  into  a  large  and  beauti- 
ful garden.  Out  of  the  dining-room  you  pass  through  an  entry 
into  the  kitchen,  which  is  rather  small  for  so  large  a  house.  In 
this  entry  are  stairs  which  you  ascend,  at  the  top  of  which  is  a 
long  gallery  fronting  the  street,  with  six  windows,  and  opposite  to 
each  window  you  open  into  the  chambers,  which  all  look  into  the 
garden. 

But  with  an  expense  of  thirty  thousand  livres  in  looking- 
glasses,  there  is  no  table  in  the  house  better  than  an  oak  board, 
nor  a  carpet  belonging  to  the  house.  The  floors  I  abhor,  made 
of  red  tiles  in  the  shape  of  Mrs.  Quincy's  floor-cloth  tiles.  These 
floors  will  by  no  means  bear  water,  so  that  the  method  of  clean- 
ing them  is  to  have  them  waxed,  and  then  a  manservant  with 
foot  brushes  drives  round  your  room,  dancing  here  and  there  like 
a  Merry  Andrew,  This  is  calculated  to  take  from  your  foot  every 
atom  of  dirt,  and  leave  the  room  in  a  few  moments  as  he  found 
it.  The  house  must  be  exceedingly  cold  in  winter.  The  dining- 
rooms,  of  which  you  make  no  other  use,  are  laid  with  small 
stones,  like  the  red  tiles  for  shape  and  size.  The  servants'  apart- 
ments are  generally  upon  the  first  floor,  and  the  stairs  which  you 
commonly  have  to  ascend  to  get  into  the  family  apartments  are 
so  dirty  that  I  have  been  obliged  to  hold  up  my  clothes  as  though 
I  was  passing  through  a  cow-yard. 

I  have  been  but  little  abroad.  It  is  customary  in  this  country 
for  strangers  to  make  the  first  visit.  As  I  cannot  speak  the  lan- 
guage, I  think  I  should  make  rather  an  awkward  figure.  I  have 
dined  abroad  several  times  with  Mr.  Adams's  particular  friends, 
the  Abbes,  who  are  very  polite  and  civil, — three  sensible  and 
worthy  men.  The  Abbe  de  Mably  has  lately  published  a  book, 
which  he  has  dedicated  to  Mr.  Adams.  This  gentleman  is  nearly 
eighty  years  old;  the  Abbe  Chalut,  seventy-five;  and  Amoux 
about  fifty,  a  fine  sprightly  man,  who  takes  great  pleasure  in 
obliging  his  friends.  Their  apartments  were  really  nice.  I  have 
dined  once  at  Dr.  Franklin's,  and  once  at  Mr.  Barclay's,  our  con- 
sul, who  has  a  very  agreeable  woman  for  his  wife,  and  where  I 
feel  like  being  with  a  friend.  Mrs.  Barclay  has  assisted  me  in 
my  purchases,  gone  with  me  to  different  shops,  etc.  To-morrow 
I    am    to    dine   at   Monsieur   Grand's;   but   I   have   really   felt   so 


g6  ABIGAIL  ADAMS 

happy  within  doors,  and  am  so  pleasingly  situated,  that  I  have 
had  little  inclination  to  change  the  scene.  I  have  not  been  to  one 
public  amusement  as  yet,  not  even  the  opera,  though  we  have 
one  very  near  us. 

You  may  easily  suppose  I  have  been  fully  employed,  beginning 
housekeeping  anew,  and  arranging  my  family  to  our  no  small 
expenses  and  trouble;  for  I  have  had  bed-linen  and  table-linen  to 
purchase  and  make,  spoons  and  forks  to  get  made  of  silver,  — 
three  dozen  of  each, — besides  tea  furniture,  china  for  the  table, 
servants  to  procure,  etc.  The  expense  of  living  abroad  I  always 
supposed  to  be  high,  but  my  ideas  were  nowise  adequate  to  the 
thing.  I  could  have  furnished  myself  in  the  town  of  Boston  with 
everything  I  have,  twenty  or  thirty  per  cent,  cheaper  than  I  have 
been  able  to  do  it  here.  Everything  which  will  bear  the  name  of 
elegant  is  imported  from  England,  and  if  you  will  have  it,  you 
must  pay  for  it,  duties  and  all.  I  cannot  get  a  dozen  handsome 
wineglasses  under  three  guineas,  nor  a  pair  of  small  decanters  for 
less  than  a  guinea  and  a  half.  The  only  gauze  fit  to  wear  is 
English,  at  a  crown  a  yard;  so  that  really  a  guinea  goes  no  further 
than  a  copper  with  us.  For  this  house,  garden,  stables,  etc.,  we 
give  two  hundred  guineas  a  year.  Wood  is  two  guineas  and  a 
half  per  cord;  coal,  six  livres  the  basket  of  about  two  bushels; 
this  article  of  firing  we  calculate  at  one  hundred  guineas  a  year. 
The  difference  between  coming  upon  this  negotiation  to  France, 
and  remaining  at  the  Hague,  where  the  house  was  already  fur- 
nished at  the  expense  of  a  thousand  pounds  sterling,  will  increase 
the  expense  here  to  six  or  seven  hundred  guineas;  at  a  time,  too, 
when  Congress  has  cut  off  five  hundred  guineas  from  what  they 
have  heretofore  given.  For  our  coachman  and  horses  alone  (Mr. 
Adams  purchased  a  coach  in  England)  we  give  fifteen  guineas  a 
month.  It  is  the  policy  of  this  country  to  oblige  you  to  a  certain 
number  of  servants,  and  one  will  not  touch  what  belongs  to  the 
business  of  another,  though  he  or  she  has  time  enough  to  per- 
form the  whole.  In  the  first  place,  there  is  a  coachman  who  does 
not  an  individual  thing  but  attend  to  the  carriages  and  horses; 
then  the  gardener,  who  has  business  enough;  then  comes  the  cook; 
then  the  mattre  d' hotel, — his  business  is  to  purchase  articles  in 
the  family,  and  oversee  that  nobody  cheats  but  himself;  a  valet  de 
chambre, — John  serves  in  this  capacity;  a  femine  de  chambre, — 
Esther  serves  for  this,  and  is  worth  a  dozen  others;  a  coiffeuse, — 
for  this  place  I  have  a  French  girl  about  nineteen,  whom  T  have 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS  97 

been  upon  the  point  of  turning  away,  because  madam  will  not 
brush  a  chamber:  "it  is  not  de  fashion,  it  is  not  her  business.** 
I  would  not  have  kept  her  a  day  longer,  but  found,  upon  inquiry, 
that  I  could  not  better  myself,  and  hair-dressing  here  is  very 
expensive  unless  you  keep  such  a  madam  in  the  house.  She 
sews  tolerably  well,  so  I  make  her  as  useful  as  I  can.  She  is 
more  particularly  devoted  to  mademoiselle.  Esther  diverted  me 
yesterday  evening  by  telling  me  that  she  heard  her  go  muttering 
by  her  chamber  door,  after  she  had  been  assisting  Abby  in  dress- 
ing. *Ah,  mon  Dieu,  'tis  provoking** — (she  talks  a  little  Eng- 
lish).— "Why,  what  is  the  matter,  Pauline:  what  is  provoking?** 
—  "Why,  Mademoiselle  look  so  pretty,  I  so  mauvais.''*  There  is 
another  indispensable  servant,  who  is  called  a  frotteur:  his  busi- 
ness is  to  rub  the  floors. 

We  have  a  servant  who  acts  as  ntaitre  d'hotel,  whom  I  like  at 
present,  and  who  is  so  very  gracious  as  to  act  as  footman  too, 
to  save  the  expense  of  another  servant,  upon  condition  that  we 
give  him  a  gentleman's  suit  of  clothes  in  lieu  of  a  livery.  Thus, 
with  seven  servants  and  hiring  a  charwoman  upon  occasion  ot 
company,  we  may  possibly  make  out  to  keep  house;  with  less,  we 
should  be  hooted  at  as  ridiculous,  and  could  not  entertain  any 
company.  To  tell  this  in  our  own  country  would  be  considered  as 
extravagance;  but  would  they  send  a  person  here  in  a  public  char- 
acter to  be  a  public  jest  ?  At  lodgings  in  Paris  last  year,  during 
Mr.  Adams's  negotiation  for  a  peace,  it  was  as  expensive  to  him 
as  it  is  now  at  housekeeping,  without  half  the  accommodations. 

Washing  is  another  expensive  article:  the  servants  are  all 
allowed  theirs,  besides  their  wages;  our  own  costs  us  a  guinea  a 
week.  I  have  become  steward  and  bookkeeper,  determined  to 
know  with  accuracy  what  our  expenses  are,  to  prevail  with  Mr. 
Adams  to  return  to  America  if  he  finds  himself  straitened,  as  I 
think  he  must  be.  Mr.  Jay  went  home  because  he  could  not 
support  his  family  here  with  the  whole  salary;  what  then  can  be 
done,  curtailed  as  it  now  is,  with  the  additional  expense  ?  Mr. 
Adams  is  determined  to  keep  as  little  company  as  he  possibly 
can;  but  some  entertainments  we  must  make,  and  it  is  no 
unusual  thing  for  them  to  amount  to  fifty  or  sixty  guineas  at 
a  time.  More  is  to  be  performed  by  way  of  negotiation,  many 
times,  at  one  of  these  entertainments,  than  at  twenty  serious  con« 
versations;  but  the  policy  of  our  country  has  been,  and  still  is, 
to  be  penny-wise  and  pound-foolish.  We  stand  in  sufficient 
1—7 


98 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS 


need  of  economy,  and  in  the  curtailment  of  other  salaries  I 
suppose  they  thought  it  absolutely  necessary  to  cut  off  their 
foreign  ministers.  But,  my  own  interest  apart,  the  system  is  bad; 
for  that  nation  which  degrades  their  own  ministers  by  obliging 
them  to  live  in  narrow  circumstances,  cannot  expect  to  be  held  in 
high  estimation  themselves.  We  spend  no  evenings  abroad,  make 
no  suppers,  attend  very  few  public  entertainments,  —  or  specta- 
cles, as  they  are  called, — and  avoid  every  expense  that  is  not 
held  indispensable.  Yet  I  cannot  but  think  it  hard  that  a  gentle- 
man who  has  devoted  so  great  a  part  of  his  life  to  the  servdce 
of  the  public,  who  has  been  the  means,  in  a  great  measure,  of 
procuring  such  extensive  territories  to  his  country,  who  saved  their 
fisheries,  and  who  is  still  laboring  to  procure  them  further  advan- 
tages, should  find  it  necessary  so  cautiously  to  calculate  his  pence, 
for  fear  of  overrunning  them.  I  will  add  one  more  expense. 
There  is  now  a  court  mourning,  and  every  foreign  minister,  with 
his  family,  must  go  into  mourning  for  a  Prince  of  eight  years  old, 
whose  father  is  an  ally  to  the  King  of  France.  This  mourning  is 
ordered  by  the  Court,  and  is  to  be  worn  eleven  days  only.  Poor 
Mi*.  Jefferson  had  to  hie  away  for  a  tailor  to  get  a  whole  black- 
silk  suit  made  up  in  two  days;  and  at  the  end  of  eleven  days, 
should  another  death  happen,  he  will  be  obliged  to  have  a  new 
suit  of  mourning,  of  cloth,  because  that  is  the  season  when  silk 
must  be  left  off.  We  may  groan  and  scold,  but  these  are  expenses 
which  cannot  be  avoided;  for  fashion  is  the  deity  every  one 
worships  in  this  country,  and  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  you 
must  submit.  Even  poor  John  and  Esther  had  no  comfort  among 
the  servants,  being  constantly  the  subjects  of  ridicule,  until  we 
were  obliged  to  direct  them  to  have  their  hair  dressed.  Esther 
had  several  crying  fits  upon  the  occasion,  that  she  should  be 
forced  to  be  so  much  of  a  fool;  but  there  was  no  way  to  keep 
them  from  being  trampled  upon  but  this,  and  now  that  they  are 
a  la  mode  de  Paris,  they  are  much  respected.  To  be  out  of 
fashion  is  more  criminal  than  to  be  seen  in  a  state  of  nature,  to 
which  the  Parisians  are  not  averse. 

AuTEuiL,  ^EAR  Paris,   loth  May,   1:785, 

DID  you   ever,  my  dear  Betsey,  see  a  person  in  real  life   such 
as  your  imagination  formed  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison  ?     The 
Baron  de  Stael,  the  Swedish  Ambassador,  comes  nearest  to 
that  character,   in  his  manners  and   personal  appearance,   of  any 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS 


99 


gentleman  I  ever  saw.  The  first  time  I  saw  him  I  was  prejudiced 
in  his  favor,  for  his  countenance  commands  your  good  opinion: 
it  is  animated,  inteUigent,  sensible,  affable,  and  without  being  per- 
fectly beautiful,  is  most  perfectly  agreeable;  add  to  this  a  fine 
figfure,  and  who  can  fail  in  being  charmed  with  the  Baron  de 
Stael  ?  He  lives  in  a  grand  hotel,  and  his  suite  of  apartments,  his 
furniture,  and  his  table,  are  the  most  elegant  of  anything  I  have 
seen.  Although  you  dine  iipon  plate  in  every  noble  house  in 
France,  I  cannot  say  that  you  may  see  your  face  in  it;  but  here 
the  whole  furniture  of  the  table  was  burnished,  and  shone  with 
regal  splendor.  Seventy  thousand  livres  in  plate  will  make  no 
small  figure;  and  that  is  what  his  Majesty  gave  him.  The  dessert 
was  served  on  the  richest  china,  with  knives,  forks,  and  spoons 
of  gold.  As  you  enter  his  apartments,  you  pass  through  files  of 
servants  into  his  ante-chamber,  in  which  is  a  throne  covered  with 
green  velvet,  upon  which  is  a  chair  of  state,  over  which  hangs 
the  picture  of  his  royal  master.  These  thrones  are  common  to  all 
ambassadors  of  the  first  order,  as  they  are  immediate  representa- 
tives of  the  king.  Through  this  ante-chamber  you  pass  into  the 
grand  salon,  which  is  elegantly  adorned  with  architecture,  a  beauti- 
ful lustre  hanging  from  the  middle.  Settees,  chairs,  and  hangings 
of  the  richest  silk,  embroidered  with  gold;  marble  slabs  upon 
fluted  pillars,  round  which  wreaths  of  artificial  flowers  in  gold 
entwine.  It  is  usual  to  find  in  all  houses  of  fashion,  as  in  this, 
several  dozens  of  chairs,  all  of  which  have  stuffed  backs  and 
cushions,  standing  in  double  rows  round  the  rooms.  The  dining- 
room  was  equally  beautiful,  being  hung  with  Gobelin  tapestry,  the 
colors  and  figures  of  which  resemble  the  most  elegant  painting. 
In  this  room  were  hair-bottom  mahogany-backed  chairs,  and  the 
first  I  have  seen  since  I  came  to  France.      Two  small  statues  of  a 

Venus  de  Medicis,  and   a  Venus  de  (ask   Miss  Paine  for  the 

other  name),  were  upon  the  mantelpiece.  The  latter,  however, 
was  the  most  modest  of  the  kind,  having  something  like  a  loose 
robe  thrown  partly  over  her.  From  the  Swedish  Ambassador's 
we  went  to  visit  the  Duchess  d'EnviUe,  who  is  mother  to  the 
Duke  de  Rochefoucault.  We  found  the  old  lady  sitting  in  an  easy- 
chair;  around  her  sat  a  circle  of  Academicians,  and  by  her  side  a 
young  lady.  Your  uncle  presented  us,  and  the  old  lady  rose,  and, 
as  usual,  gave  us  a  salute.  As  she  had  no  paint,  I  could  put  up 
with  it;  but  when  she  approached  your  cousin  I  could  think  of 
nothing   but   Death    taking   hold   of   Hebe.     The   duchess  is  near 


lOO  ABIGAIL  ADAMS 

eigfhty,  veiy  tall  and  lean.  She  was  dressed  in  a  silk  chemise, 
with  very  large  sleeves,  coming  half-way  down  her  arm,  a  large 
cape,  no  stays,  a  black-velvet  girdle  round  her  waist,  some  very 
rich  lace  in  her  chemise,  round  her  neck,  and  in  her  sleeves;  but 
the  lace  was  not  sufficient  to  cover  the  upper  part  of  her  neck, 
which  old  Time  had  harrowed;  she  had  no  cap  on,  but  a  little 
gauze  bonnet,  which  did  not  reach  her  ears,  and  tied  under  her 
chin,  her  venerable  white  hairs  in  full  view.  The  dress  of  old 
women  and  young  girls  in  this  country  is  detestable,  to  speak  in 
the  French  style;  the  latter  at  the  age  of  seven  being  clothed 
exactly  like  a  woman  of  twenty,  and  the  former  have  such  a  fan- 
tastical appearance  that  I  cannot  endure  it.  The  old  lady  has  all 
the  vivacity  of  a  young  one.  She  is  the  most  learned  woman  in 
France;  her  house  is  the  resort  of  all  men  of  literature,  with 
whom  she  converses  upon  the  most  abstruse  subjects.  She  is  of 
one  of  the  most  ancient,  as  well  as  the  richest  families  in  the 
kingdom.  She  asked  very  archly  when  Dr.  Franklin  was  going  to 
America.  Upon  being  told,  says  she,  *I  have  heard  that  he  is  a 
prophet  there ; "  alluding  to  that  text  of  Scripture,  ** A  prophet  is 
not  without  honor,"  etc.  It  was  her  husband  who  commanded 
the  fleet  which  once  spread  such  terror  in  our  country. 


TO  HER   SISTER 

London,  Friday,   24th  July  1784. 
My  Dear  Sister: 

I  AM  not  a  little  surprised  to  find  dress,  unless  upon  public  occas- 
ions, so  little  regarded  here.  The  gentlemen  are  very  plainly 
dressed,  and  the  ladies  much  more  so  than  with  us.  'Tis  true, 
you  must  put  a  hoop  on  and  have  your  hair  dressed;  but  a  com- 
mon straw  hat,  no  cap,  with  only  a  ribbon  upon  the  crown,  is 
thought  dress  sufficient  to  go  into  company.  Muslins  are  much  in 
taste;  no  silks  but  lutestrings  worn;  but  send  not  to  London  for 
any  article  you  want:  you  may  purchase  anything  you  can  name 
much  lower  in  Boston.  I  went  yesterday  into  Cheapside  to  pur- 
chase a  few  articles,  but  found  everything  higher  than  in  Boston. 
Silks  are  in  a  particular  manner  so;  they  say,  when  they  are 
exported,  there  is  a  drawback  upon  them,  which  makes  them 
lower  with  us.  Our  country,  alas,  our  country!  they  are  extrava- 
gant to  astonishment  in  entertainments  compared  with  what  Mr. 
Smith  and  Mr.   Storer  tell  me   of  this.      You  will  not  find  at  a 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS  lOt 

gentleiiian's  table  more  than  two  dishes  oi  meat,  though  invited 
sevend  days  beforehand.  Mis.  Atkinson  went  out  with  me  yes- 
terday, and  Mis.  Hay,  to  the  shops.  I  returned  and  dined  with 
Mis.  AtJanson,  by  her  invitation  the  evening  before,  in  company 
with  Mr.  Smith,  Mrs.  Hay,  Mr.  Appleton.  We  had  a  tnrbot,  a 
soap,  and  a  roast  1^  of  lamb,  with  a  cherry  pie.     .     .     . 

The  wind  has  prevented  the  arrival  of  the  post.  The  dty  of 
London  is  pleasanter  than  I  expected;  the  buildings  more  regu- 
lar, the  streets  much  wider,  and  more  snndiine  than  I  thought  to 
have  found:  but  this,  they  tell  me,  is  the  pleasantest  season  to  be 
in  the  dty.  At  my  lodgfings  I  am  as  quiet  as  at  any  place  in  Bos- 
ton; nor  do  I  feel  as  if  it  could  be  any  other  place  than  Boston. 
Dr.  Qaik  visits  us  every  day;  says  he  cannot  feel  at  home  any- 
where else:  declares  he  has  not  seen  a  handsome  woman  since  he 

came  into  the  city;  that  every  old  woman  looks  like  Mrs.  H , 

and  every  young  one  like — like  the  D — L  They  paint  here  nearly 
as  much  as  in  France,  but  with  more  ait.  The  head-dress  disfig- 
ures them  in  the  eyes  ci  an.  American.  I  have  seen  many  ladies, 
but  not  one  elegant  one  since  I  came;  there  is  not  to  me  that 
neatness  in  their  appearance  whidi  yon  see  in  our  ladies. 

The  American  ladies  are  much  admired  here  by  the  gen- 
tlranen,  I  am  told,  and  in  truth  I  wonder  not  at  it.  Oh,  my 
country,  my  country!  preserve,  preserve  the  little  purity  and 
snnplicity  ci  manners  you  yet  possess.  Believe  me,  they  are 
jewels  of  inestimable  value;  the  softness,  peculiarly  characteristic 
ci  our  sex,  and  which  is  so  pleasing  to  the  gentlemen,  is  wholly 
laid  aside  here  for  the  masculine  attire  and  manners  of  Amazonians. 


LosTDOX,  Bath  Hotel,  West3co?stek,  34th  June,  1785. 
Afy  Dear  Sister: 

I  HAVE  been  here  a  month  without  writing  a  single  Hne  to  my 
American  friends.  On  or  about  the  twenty-eighth  of  May  we 
reached  London,  and  expected  to  have  gone  into  our  old  quiet 
lodgings  at  the  Adelphi;  but  we  found  every  hotel  fnlL  The  sit- 
ting of  Parliament,  the  birthday  of  the  King,  and  the  famotts 
celebration  of  the  muac  of  Handel,  at  Westminster  Abbey,  had 
drawn  together  such  a  concourse  of  people  that  we  were  glad  to 
get  into  lodgings  at  the  moderate  price  of  a  guinea  per  day,  for 
two  rooms  and  two  chambers,  at  the  Bath  Hotel,  Westminster, 
Piocadilty.   where  we  yet  are.     This  being  the  Court  end  of  the 


I02  ABIGAIL   ADAMS 

city,  it  is  the  resort  of  a  vast  concourse  of  carriages.  It  is  too 
public  and  noisy  for  pleasure,  but  necessity  is  without  law.  The 
ceremony  of  presentation,  upon  one  week  to  the  King,  and  the 
next  to  the  Queen,  was  to  take  place,  after  which  I  was  to  pre- 
pare for  mine.  It  is  customary-,  upon  presentation,  to  receive  visits 
from  all  the  foreign  ministers;  so  that  we  could  not  exchange  our 
lodgings  for  more  private  ones,  as  we  might  and  should,  had  we 
been  only  in  a  private  character.  The  foreign  ministers  and  sev- 
eral English  lords  and  earls  have  paid  their  compliments  here, 
and  all  hitherto  is  civil  and  polite.  I  was  a  fortnight,  all  the 
time  I  could  get,  looking  at  different  houses,  but  could  not  find  any 
one  fit  to  inhabit  under  j^2oo,  beside  the  taxes,  which  mount  up 
to  ;,^5o  or  ;^6o.  At  last  my  good  genius  carried  me  to  one  in 
Grosvenor  Square,  which  was  not  let,  because  the  person  who  had 
the  care  of  it  could  let  it  only  for  the  remaining  lease,  which  was" 
one  year  and  three-quarters.  The  price,  which  is  not  quite  two 
hundred  pounds,  the  situation,  and  all  together,  induced  us  to 
close  the  bargain,  and  I  have  prevailed  upon  the  person  who  lets 
it  to  paint  two  rooms,  which  will  put  it  into  decent  order;  so  that, 
as  soon  as  oar  furniture  comes,  I  shall  again  commence  house- 
keeping. Living  at  a  hotel  is,  I  think,  more  expensive  than 
housekeeping,  in  proportion  to  what  one  has  for  his  money.  We 
have  never  had  more  than  two  dishes  at  a  time  upon  our  table, 
and  have  not  pretended  to  ask  any  company,  and  yet  we  live  at  a 
greater  expense  than  twenty-five  guineas  per  week.  The  wages 
of  servants,  horse  hire,  house  rent,  and  provisions  are  mucli 
dearer  here  than  in  France.  Servants  of  various  sorts,  and  for 
different  departments,  are  to  be  procured;  their  characters  are  to 
be  inquired  into,  and  this  I  take  upon  me,  even  to  the  coachman. 
You  can  hardly  form  an  idea  how  much  I  miss  my  son  on  this, 
as  well  as  on  many  other  accounts;  but  I  cannot  bear  to  trouble 
Mr.  Adams  with  anything  of  a  domestic  kind,  who,  from  morning 
until  evening,  has  sufficient  to  occupy  all  his  time.  You  can  have 
no  idea  of  the  petitions,  letters,  and  private  applications  for 
assistance,  which  crowd  our  doors.  Every  person  represents  his 
case  as  dismal.  Some  may  really  be  objects  of  compassion,  and 
some  we  assist;  but  one  must  have  an  inexhaustible  purse  to 
supply  them  all.  Besides,  there  are  so  many  gross  impositions 
practiced,  as  we  have  found  in  more  instances  than  one,  that  it 
would  take  the  whole  of  a  person's  time  to  trace  all  their  stories. 
Many  pretend  to  have  been  American  soldiers,  some  have  served 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS 


103 


as  officers.  A  most  glaring  instance  of  falsehood,  however, 
Colonel  Smith  detected  in  a  man  of  these  pretensions,  who  sent 
to  Mr.  Adams  from  the  King's  Bench  prison,  and  modestly 
desired  five  guineas;  a  qualified  cheat,  but  evidently  a  man  of 
letters  and  abilities:  but  if  it  is  to  continue  in  this  way,  a  galley 
slave  would  have  an  easier  task. 

The  Tory  venom  has  begun  to  spit  itself  forth  in  the  public 
papers,  as  I  expected,  bursting  with  envy  that  an  American  min- 
ister should  be  received  here  with  the  same  marks  of  attention, 
politeness,  and  civility,  which  are  shown  to  the  ministers  of  any 
other  power.  When  a  minister  delivers  his  credentials  to  the 
King,  it  is  always  in  his  private  closet,  attended  only  by  the 
Minister  for  Foreign  Affairs,  which  is  called  a  private  audience, 
and  the  minister  presented  makes  some  little  address  to  his 
Majesty,  and  the  same  ceremony  to  the  Queen,  whose  reply  was 
in  these  words :  "  Sir,  I  thank  you  for  your  civility  to  me  and 
my  family,  and  I  am  glad  to  see  you  in  this  country ;  *  then  she 
very  politely  inquired  whether  he  had  got  a  house  yet.  The 
answer  of  his  Majesty  was  much  longer;  but  I  am  not  at  liberty 
to  say  more  respecting  it,  than  that  it  was  civil  and  polite,  and 
that  his  Majesty  said  he  was  glad  the  choice  of  his  country  had 
fallen  upon  him.  The  news-liars  know  nothing  of  the  matter; 
they  represent  it  just  to  answer  their  purpose.  Last  Thursday, 
Colonel  Smith  was  presented  at  Court,  and  to-morrow,  at  the 
Queen's  circle,  my  ladyship  and  your  niece  make  our  compli- 
ments. There  is  no  other  presentation  in  Europe  in  which  I 
should  feel  as  much  as  in  this.  Your  own  reflections  will  easily 
suggest  the  reasons. 

I  have  received  a  very  friendly  and  polite  visit  from  the 
Countess  of  Effingham.  She  called,  and  not  finding  me  at  home, 
left  a  card.  I  returned  her  visit,  but  was  obliged  to  do  it  by  leav- 
ing my  card  too,  as  she  was  gone  out  of  town;  but  when  her 
ladyship  returned,  she  sent  her  compliments  and  word  that  if 
agreeable  she  would  take  a  dish  of  tea  with  me,  and  named  her 
day.  She  accordingly  came,  and  appeared  a  very  polite,  sensible 
woman.  She  is  about  forty,  a  good  person,  though  a  little  mas- 
culine, elegant  in  her  appearance,  very  easy  and  social.  The  Earl 
of  Effingham  is  too  well  remembered  by  America  to  need  any 
particular  recital  of  his  character.  His  mother  is  first  lady  to  the 
Queen.  When  her  ladyship  took  leave,  she  desired  I  would  let 
her  know  the  day  I  would  favor  her  with  a  visit,  as  she  should  be 


t04  ABIGAIL  ADAMS 

loath  to  be  absent.  She  resides,  in  summer,  a  little  distance 
from  town.  The  Earl  is  a  member  of  Parliament,  which  obliges 
him  now  to  be  in  town,  and  she  usually  comes  with  him,  and 
resides  at  a  hotel  a  little  distance  from  this. 

I  find  a  good  many  ladies  belonging  to  the  Southern  States 
here,  many  of  whom  have  visited  me;  I  have  exchanged  visits 
with  several,  yet  neither  of  us  have  met.  The  custom  is,  how- 
ever, here  much  more  agreeable  than  in  France,  for  it  is  as  with 
us:  the  stranger  is  first  visited. 

The  ceremony  of  presentation  here  is  considered  as  indispens- 
able. There  are  four  minister-plenipotentiaries'  ladies  here;  but 
one  ambassador,  and  he  has  no  lady.  In  France,  the  ladies  of 
ambassadors  only  are  presented.  One  is  obliged  here  to  attend  the 
circles  of  the  Queen,  which  are  held  in  summer  once  a  fortnight, 
but  once  a  week  the  rest  of  the  year;  and  what  renders  it  exceed- 
ingly expensive  is,  that  you  cannot  go  twice  the  same  season  in 
the  same  dress,  and  a  Court  dress  you  cannot  make  use  of  any- 
where else.  I  directed  my  mantuamaker  to  let  my  dress  be  ele- 
gant, but  plain  as  I  could  possibly  appear,  with  decency;  accord- 
ingly, it  is  white  lutestring,  covered  and  full  trimmed  with  white 
crape,  festooned  with  lilac  ribbon  and  mock  point  lace,  over  a 
hoop  of  enormous  extent;  there  is  only  a  narrow  train  of  about 
three  yards  in  length  to  the  gown  waist,  which  is  put  into  a  rib- 
bon upon  the  left  side,  the  Queen  only  having  her  train  borne. 
Ruffle  cuffs  for  married  "ladies,  treble  lace  lappets,  two  white 
plumes,  and  a  blond  lace  handkerchief.  This  is  my  rigging.  I 
should  have   mentioned   two  pearl   pins  in  my  hair,  earrings  and 

necklace  of  the  same  kind. 

Thursday  Morning. 

My  head  is  dressed  for  St.  James's,  and  in  my  opinion  looks 
very  tasty.  While  my  daughter's  is  undergoing  the  same  opera- 
tion, I  set  myself  down  composedly  to  write  you  a  few  lines. 
*Well,'*  methinks  I  hear  Betsey  and  Lucy  say,  "what  is  cousin's 
dress  ?  *^  White,  my  dear  girls,  like  your  aunt's,  only  differently 
trimmed  and  ornamented:  her  train  being  wholly  of  white  crape, 
and  trimmed  with  white  ribbon;  the  petticoat,  which  is  the  most 
showy  part  of  the  dress,  covered  and  drawn  up  in  what  are  called 
festoons,  with  light  wreaths  of  beautiful  flowers;  the  sleeves  white 
crape,  drawn  over  the  silk,  with  a  row  of  lace  round  the  sleeve 
near  the  shoulder,  another  half-way  down  the  arm,  and  a  third 
upon  the  top  of  the  ruffle,  a  little  flower  stuck   between-  a  kind 


ABIGAIL  ADAMS 


105 


of  hat-cap,  with  three  large  feathers  and  a  bunch  of  flowers;  a 
wreath  of  flowers  upon  the  hair.  Thus  equipped,  we  go  in  our 
own  carriage,  and  Mr.  Adams  and  Colonel  Smith  in  his.  But  I 
must  quit  my  pen  to  put  myself  in  order  for  the  ceremony,  which 
begins  at  two  o'clock.  When  I  return,  I  will  relate  to  you  my 
reception;  but  do  not  let  it  circulate,  as  there  may  be  persons 
eager  to  catch  at  everything,  and  as  much  given  to  misrepresent- 
ation as  here.     I  would  gladly  be  excused  the  ceremony. 

Friday  Morning. 
Congratulate  me,  my  dear  sister:  it  is  over.  I  was  too  much 
fatigued  to  write  a  line  last  evening.  At  two  o'clock  we  went  to 
the  circle,  which  is  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  Queen.  We 
passed  through  several  apartments,  lined  as  usual  with  specta- 
tors upon  these  occasions.  Upon  entering  the  ante-chamber,  the 
Baron  de  Lynden,  the  Dutch  Minister,  who  has  been  often  here, 
came  and  spoke  with  me.  A  Count  Sarsfield,  a  French  noble- 
man, with  whom  I  was  acquainted,  paid  his  compliments.  As  I 
passed  into  the  drawing-room,  Lord  Carmarthen  and  Sir  Clement 
Cotterel  Dormer  were  presented  to  me.  Though  they  had  been 
several  times  here,  I  had  never  seen  them  before.  The  Swedish 
and  the  Polish  Ministers  made  their  compliments,  and  several 
other  gentlemen;  but  not  a  single  lady  did  I  know  until  the 
Countess  of  Effingham  came,  who  was  very  civil.  There  were 
three  young  ladies,  daughters  of  the  Marquis  of  Lothian,  who  were 
to  be  presented  at  the  same  time,  and  two  brides.  We  were 
placed  in  a  circle  round  the  drawing-room,  which  was  very  full; 
I  believe  two  hundred  persons  present.  Only  think  of  the  task! 
The  royal  family  have  to  go  round  to  every  person  and  find  small 
talk  enough  to  speak  to  them  all,  though  they  very  prudently 
speak  in  a  whisper,  so  that  only  the  person  who  stands  next  to 
you  can  hear  what  is  said.  The  King  enters  the  room  and  goes 
round  to  the  right;  the  Queen  and  Princesses  to  the  left.  The 
lord-in -waiting  presents  you  to  the  King;  and  the  lady-in-waiting 
does  the  same  to  her  Majesty.  The  King  is  a  personable  man; 
but,  my  dear  sister,  he  has  a  certain  countenance,  which  you  and 
I  have  often  remarked:  a  red  face  and  white  eyebrows.  The 
Queen  has  a  similar  countenance,  and  the  numerous  royal  family 
confirm  the  observation.  Persons  are  not  placed  according  to 
their  rank  in  the  drawing-room,  but  promiscuously;  and  when  the 
King  comes  in.  he  takes  persons  as  they  stand.     When  he  came 


lo6  ABIGAIL    ADAMS 

to  me,  Lord  Onslow  said,  <*  Mrs.  Adams; '^  upon  which  I  drew  off 
my  right-hand  glove,  and  his  Majesty  saluted  my  left  cheek;  then 
asked  me  if  I  had  taken  a  walk  to-day.  I  could  have  told  his 
Majesty  that  I  had  been  all  the  morning  preparing  to  wait  upon 
him ;  but  I  replied,  "  No,  Sire. "  ^*  Why,  don't  you  love  walking  ?  *^ 
says  he.  I  answered  that  I  was  rather  indolent  in  that  respect. 
He  then  bowed,  and  passed  on.  It  was  more  than  two  hours 
after  this  before  it  came  to  my  turn  to  be  presented  to  the  Queen. 
The  circle  was  so  large  that  the  company  were  four  hours  stand- 
ing. The  Queen  was  evidently  embarrassed  when  I  was  presented 
to  her.  I  had  disagreeable  feelings,  too.  She,  however,  said, 
"  Mrs.  Adams,  have  you  got  into  your  house?  Pray,  how  do  you 
like  the  situation  of  it  ?  **  While  the  Princess  Royal  looked  com- 
passionate, and  asked  me  if  I  was  not  much  fatigued;  and  ob- 
served, that  it  was  a  very  full  drawing-room.  Her  sister,  who 
came  next,  Princess  Augusta,  after  having  asked  your  niece  if  she 
was  ever  in  England  before,  and  her  answering  ^'  Yes, "  inquired 
of  me  how  long  ago,  and  supposed  it  was  when  she  was  very 
young.  All  this  is  said  with  much  affability,  and  the  ease  and 
freedom  of  old  acquaintance.  The  manner  in  which  they  make 
their  tour  round  the  room  is,  first,  the  Queen,  the  lady-in-waiting 
behind  her,  holding  up  her  train;  next  to  her,  the  Princess  Royal: 
after  her,  Princess  Augusta,  and  their  lady-in-waiting  behind  them. 
They  are  pretty,  rather  than  beautiful;  well-shaped,  fair  complex 
ions,  and  a  tincture  of  the  King's  countenance.  The  two  sisters 
look  much  alike;  they  were  both  dressed  in  black  and  silver  silk, 
with  silver  netting  upon  the  coat,  and  their  heads  full  of  diamond 
pins.  The  Queen  was  in  purple  and  silver.  She  is  not  well 
shaped  nor  handsome.  As  to  the  ladies  of  the  Court,  rank  and 
title  may  compensate  for  want  of  personal  charms;  but  they  are, 
in  general,  very  plain,  ill-shaped,  and  ugly;  but  don't  you  tell  any- 
body that  I  say  so.  If  one  wants  to  see  beauty,  one  must  go  to 
Ranelagh;  there  it  is  collected,  in  one  bright  constellation.  There 
were  two  ladies  very  elegant,  at  Court, —  Lady  Salisbury  and 
Lady  Talbot;  but  the  observation  did  not  in  general  hold  good 
that  fine  feathers  make  fine  birds.  I  saw  many  who  were  vastly 
richer  dressed  than  your  friends,  but  I  will  venture  to  say  that  I 
saw  none  neater  or  more  elegant:  which  praise  I  ascribe  to  the 
taste  of  Mrs.  Temple  and  my  mantuamaker;  for,  after  having 
declared  that  I  would  not  have  any  foil  or  tinsel  about  me,  <-hey 
fixed  upon  the  dress  I  have  described. 


ABIGAIL   ADAMS  I07 

[Inclosure  to  her  niece] 
My  Dear  Betsey: 

I  BELIEVE  I  once  promised  to  give  you  an  account  of  that  kind 
of  visiting  called  a  ladies'  rout.  There  are  two  kinds;  one 
where  a  lady  sets  apart  a  particular  day  in  the  week  to  see 
company.  These  are  held  only  five  months  in  the  year,  it  being 
quite  out  of  fashion  to  be  seen  in  London  during  the  summer. 
When  a  lady  returns  from  the  country  she  goes  round  and  leaves 
a  card  with  all  her  acquaintance,  and  then  sends  them  an  invita- 
tion to  attend  her  routs  during  the  season.  The  other  kind  is 
where  a  lady  sends  to  you  for  certain  evenings,  and  the  cards  are 
always  addressed  in  her  own  name,  both  to  gentlemen  and  ladies. 
The  rooms  are  all  set  open,  and  card  tables  set  in  each  room,  the 
lady  of  the  house  receiving  her  company  at  the  door  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, where  a  set  number  of  courtesies  are  given  and  received, 
with  as  much  order  as  is  necessary  for  a  soldier  who  goes  through 
the  different  evolutions  of  his  exercise.  The  visitor  then  proceeds 
into  the  room  without  appearing  to  notice  any  other  person,  and 
takes  her  seat  at  the  card  table. 

*Nor  can  the  muse  her  aid  impart. 
Unskilled  in  all  the  terms  of  art. 
Nor  in  harmonious  numbers  put 
The  deal,  the  shuffle,  and  the  cut. 
Go,  Tom,  and  light  the  ladies  up. 
It  must  be  one  before  we  sup." 

At  these  parties  it  is  usual  for  each  lady  to  play  a  rubber,  as 
it  is  termed,  when  you  must  lose  or  win  a  few  guineas.  To  give 
each  a  fair  chance,  the  lady  then  rises  and  gfives  her  seat  to 
another  set.  It  is  no  unusual  thing  to  have  your  rooms  so 
crowded  that  not  more  than  half  the  company  can  sit  at  once, 
yet  this  is  called  society  and  polite  life.  They  treat  their  com- 
pany with  coffee,  tea,  lemonade,  orgeat,  and  cake.  I  know'  of 
but  one  agreeable  circumstance  attending  these  parties,  which  is, 
that  you  may  go  away  when  you  please  without  disturbing  any- 
body. I  was  early  in  the  winter  invited  to  Madame  de  Pinto's, 
the  Portuguese  Minister's.  I  went  accordingly.  There  were  about 
two  hundred  persons  present.  I  knew  not  a  single  lady  but  by 
sight,  having  met  them  at  Court;  and  it  is  an  established  rule, 
though  you  were  to  meet  as  often  as  three  nights  in  the  week, 
never  to  speak  together,  or  know  each   other  unless  particularly 


Io8  ABIGAIL  ADAMS 

introduced.  I  was,  however,  at  no  loss  for  conversation,  Madame 
de  Pinto  being  very  polite,  and  the  foreign  ministers  being  the 
most  of  them  present,  who  had  dined  with  ns,  and  to  whom  I 
had  been  early  introduced.  It  being  Sunday  evening,  I  declined 
playing  cards;  indeed,  I  always  get  excused  when  I  can.  And 
Heaven  forbid  I  should 

« Catch  the  manners  living  as  they  rise.** 

Yet  I  must  submit  to  a  party  or  two  of  this  kind.  Having 
attended  several,  I  must  return  the  compliment  in  the  same  way. 
Yesterday  we  dined  at  Mrs.  Paradice's.  I  refer  you  to  Mr. 
Storer  for  an  account  of  this  family.  Mr.  Jefferson,  Colonel 
Smith,  the  Prussian  and  Venetian  ministers,  were  of  the  com- 
pany, and  several  other  persons  who  were  strangers.  At  eight 
o'clock  we  returned  home  in  order  to  dress  ourselves  for  the  ball 
at  the  French  Ambassador's,  to  which  we  had  received  an  invi- 
tation a  fortnight  before.  He  has  been  absent  ever  since  our 
arrival  here,  till  three  weeks  ago.  He  has  a  levee  every  Sunday 
evening,  at  which  there  are  usually  several  hundred  persons. 
The  Hotel  de  France  is  beautifully  situated,  fronting  St.  James's 
Park,  one  «nd  of  the  house  standing  upon  Hyde  Park.  It  is  a 
most  superb  building.  About  half -past  nine  we  went,  and  found 
some  company  collected.  Many  very  brilliant  ladies  of  the  first 
distinction  were  present.  The  dancing  commenced  about  ten, 
and  the  rooms  soon  filled.  The  room  which  he  had  built  for  this 
purpose  is  large  enough  for  five  or  six  hundred  persons.  It  is 
most  elegantly  decorated,  hung  with  a  gold  tissue,  ornamented 
with  twelve  brilliant  cut  lustres,  each  containing  twenty-four 
candles.  At  one  end  there  are  two  large  arches;  these  were 
adorned  with  wreaths  and  bunches  of  artificial  flowers  upon  the 
walls;  in  the  alcoves  were  cornucopise  loaded  with  oranges,  sweet- 
meats, and  other  trifles.  Coffee,  tea,  lemonade,  orgeat,  and  so 
forth,  were  taken  here  by  every  person  who  chose  to  go  for 
them.  There  were  covered  seats  all  around  the  room  for  those 
who  chose  to  dance.  In  the  other  rooms,  card  tables,  and  a 
large  faro  table,  were  set;  this  is  a  new  kind  of  game,  which  is 
much  practiced  here.  Many  of  the  company  who  did  not  dance 
retired  here  to  amuse  themselves.  The  whole  style  of  the  house 
and  furniture  is  such  as  becomes  the  ambassador  from  one  of  the 
first  monarchies  in  Europe.  He  had  twenty  thousand  guineas 
allowed   him   in   the   first   instance   to   furnish   his   house,  and   an 


ABIGAIL   ADAMS 


109 


annual  salary  of  ten  thousand  more.  He  has  agreeably  blended 
the  magnificence  and  splendor  of  France  with  the  neatness  and 
elegance  of  England.  Your  cousin  had  unfortunately  taken  a 
cold  a  few  days  before,  and  was  very  unfit  to  go  out.  She 
appeared  so  unwell  that  about  one  we  retired  without  staying  for 
supper,  the  sight  of  which  only  I  regretted,  as  it  was,  in  style, 
no  doubt,  superior  to  anything  I  have  seen.  The  Prince  of 
Wales  came  about  eleven  o'clock.  Mrs.  Fitzherbert  was  also 
present,  but  I  could  not  distinguish  her.  But  who  is  this  lady? 
methinks  I  hear  you  say.  She  is  a  lady  to  whom,  against  the 
laws  of  the  realm,  the  Prince  of  Wales  is  privately  married,  as  is 
universally  believed.  She  appears  with  him  in  all  public  parties, 
and  he  avows  his  marriage  wherever  he  dares.  They  have  been 
the  topic  of  conversation  in  all  companies  for  a  long  time,  and  it 
is  now  said  that  a  young  George  may  be  expected  in  the  course 
of  the  summer.  She  was  a  widow  of  about  thirty-two  years  of 
age,  whom  he  a  long  time  persecuted  in  order  to  get  her  upon 
his  own  terms;  but  finding  he  could  not  succeed,  he  quieted  her 
conscience  by  matrimony,  which,  however  valid  in  the  eye  of 
heaven,  is  set  aside  by  the  laws  of  the  land,  which  forbids  a 
prince  of  the  blood  to  marry  a  subject.  As  to  dresses,  I  beHeve 
I  must  leave  them  to  be  described  to  your  sister.  I  am  sorry  I 
have  nothing  better  to  send  you  than  a  sash  and  a  Vandyke 
ribbon.  The  narrow  is  to  put  round  the  edge  of  a  hat,  or  you 
may  trim  whatever  you  please  with  it. 


ttc 


HENRY  ADAMS 

(1838-) 

IHE  gifts  of  expression  and  literary  taste  which  have  always 
characterized  the  Adams  family  are  most  prominently  rep- 
resented by  this  historian.  He  has  also  its  great  memory, 
power  of  acquisition,  intellectual  independence,  and  energy  of  nature. 
The  latter  is  tempered  in  him  with  inherited  self-control,  the  mod- 
eration of  judgment  bred  by  wide  historical  knowledge,  and  a  pervas- 
ive atmosphere  of  literary  good-breeding  which  constantly  substitutes 
allusive  irony  for  crude  statement,  the  rapier  for  the  tomahawk. 

Henry  Adams  is  the  third  son  of  Charles  Francis  Adams,  Sr., — 
the  able  Minister  to  England  during  the  Civil  War, —  and  grandson 
of  John  Quincy  Adams.  He  was  born  in  Boston,  February  i6th,  1838, 
graduated  from  Harvard  in  1858,  and  served  as  private  secretary  to 
his  father  in  England.  In  1870  he  became  editor  of  the  North 
American  Review  and  Professor  of  History  at  Harvard,  in  which 
place  he  won  wide  repute  for  originality  and  power  of  inspiring 
enthusiasm  for  research  in  his  pupils.  He  has  written  several  essays 
and  books  on  historical  subjects,  and  edited  others, — *  Essays  on 
Anglo-Saxon  Law*  (1876),  <  Documents  Relating  to  New  England  Fed- 
eralism' (1877).  <Albert  Gallatin*  (1879),  < Writings  of  Albert  Gallatin* 
(1879),  <John  Randolph*  (1882)  in  the  ^American  Statesmen*  Series, 
and  < Historical  Essays*;  but  his  great  life-work  and  monument  is  his 
nine-volume  <  History  of  the  United  States,  1801-17*  (the  Jeflferson 
and  Madison  administrations),  to  write  which  he  left  his  professorship 
in  1877,  and  after  passing  many  years  in  London,  in  other  foreign  cap- 
itals, in  Washington,  and  elsewhere,  studying  archives,  family  papers, 
published  works,  shipyards,  and  many  other  things,  in  preparation  for 
it,  published  the  first  volume  in  1889,  and  the  last  in   1891. 

The  work  in  its  inception  (though  not  in  its  execution)  is  a 
polemic  tract  —  a  family  vindication,  an  act  of  pious  duty;  its  sub- 
title might  be,  *A  Justification  of  John  Quincy  Adams  for  Breaking 
with  the  Federalist  Party.*  So  taken,  the  reader  who  loves  historical 
fights  and  seriously  desires  truth  should  read  the  chapters  on  the 
Hartford  Convention  and  its  preliminaries  side  by  side  with  the 
corresponding  pages  in  Henry  Cabot  Lodges  *Life  of  George  Cabot.* 
If  he  cannot  judge  from  the  pleadings  of  these  two  able  advocates 
with  briefs  for  different  sides,  it  is  not  for  lack  of  full  exposition. 

But  the  *  History*  is  far  more  and  higher  than  a  piece  of  special 
pleading.     It  is  in  the  main,  both   as  to   domestic   and  internationai 


HENRY  ADAMS  HI 

matters,  a  resolutely  cool  and  impartial  presentation  of  facts  and 
judgments  on  all  sides  of  a  period  where  passionate  partisanship  lies 
almost  in  the  very  essence  of  the  questions  —  a  tone  contrasting  oddly 
with  the  political  action  and  feeling  of  the  two  Presidents.  Even 
where,  as  toward  the  New  England  Federalists,  many  readers  will 
consider  him  unfair  in  his  deductions,  he  never  tampers  with  or 
unfairly  proportions  the  facts. 

The  work  is  a  model  of  patient  study,  not  alone  of  what  is  con- 
ventionally accepted  as  historic  material,  but  of  all  subsidiary  matter 
necessary  to  expert  discussion  of  the  problems  involved.  He  goes 
deeply  into  economic  and  social  facts;  he  has  instructed  himself  in 
military  science  like  a  West  Point  student,  in  army  needs  like  a  quar- 
termaster, in  naval  construction,  equipment,  and  management  like 
a  naval  officer.  Of  purely  literary  qualities,  the  history  presents  a 
high  order  of  constructive  art  in  amassing  minute  details  without 
obscuring  the  main  outlines;  luminous  statement;  and  the  results  of 
a  very  powerful  memory,  which  enables  him  to  keep  before  his 
vision  every  incident  of  the  long  chronicle  with  its  involved  gproup- 
ings,  so  that  an  armory  of  instructive  comparisons,  as  well  as  of 
polemic  missiles,  is  constantly  ready  to  his  hand. 

The  history  advances  many  novel  views,  and  controverts  many 
accepted  facts.  The  relation  of  Napoleon's  warfare  against  Hayti 
and  Toussaint  to  the  great  Continental  struggle,  and  the  position  he 
assigns  it  as  the  turning  point  of  that  greater  contest,  is  perhaps 
the  most  important  'of  these.  But  almost  as  striking  are  his  views 
on  the  impressment  problem  and  the  provocations  to  the  War  of 
1812;  wherein  he  leads  to  the  most  unexpected  deduction, — namely 
that  the  grievances  on  both  sides  were  much  greater  than  is  generally 
supposed.  He  shows  that  the  profit  and  security  of  the  American 
merchant  service  drew  thousands  of  English  seamen  into  it,  where 
they  changed  their  names  and  passed  for  American  citizens,  greatly 
embarrassing  English  naval  operations.  On  the  other  hand  he  shows 
that  English  outrages  and  insults  were  so  gross  that  no  nation  with 
spirit  enough  to  be  entitled  to  separate  existence  ought  to  have 
endured  them.  He  reverses  the  severe  popular  judgment  on  Madi- 
son for  consenting  to  the  war  —  on  the  assumed  ground  of  coveting 
another  term  as  President  —  which  every  other  historian  and  biogra- 
pher from  Hildreth  to  Sydney  Howard  Gay  has  pronounced,  and 
which  has  become  a  stock  historical  convention;  holds  Jackson  s 
campaign  ending  at  New  Orleans  an  imbecile  undertaking  redeemed 
only  by  an  act  of  instinctive  pugnacity  at  the  end;  gives  Scott  and 
Jacob  Brown  the  honor  they  have  never  before  received  in  fair  meas- 
ure; and  in  many  other  points  redistributes  praise  and  blame  with 
entire  independence,  and  with  curious  effect  on  many  popular  ideas. 


IJ2  HENRY  ADAMS 

THE  AUSPICES   OF  THE  WAR   OF    1812 
From  <  History  of  the  United  States  >:  copyright  1890,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

THfe  American  declaration  of  war  against  England,  July  i8th, 
18 1 2,  annoyed  those  European  nations  that  were  gathering 
their  utmost  resources  for  resistance  to  Napoleon's  attack. 
Russia  could  not  but  regard  it  as  an  unfriendly  act,  equally  bad 
for  political  and  commercial  interests.  Spain  and  Portugal,  whose 
armies  were  fed  largely  if  not  chiefly  on  American  grain  imported 
by  British  money  under  British  protection,  dreaded  to  see  their 
supplies  cut  off.  Germany,  waiting  only  for  strength  to  recover 
her  freedom,  had  to  reckon  against  one  more  element  in  Napo- 
leon's vast  military  resources.  England  needed  to  make  greater 
efforts  in  order  to  maintain  the  advantages  she  had  gained  in 
Russia  and  Spain.  Even  in  America  no  one  doubted  the  earnest- 
ness of  England's  wish  for  peace;  and  if  Madison  and  Monroe 
insisted  on  her  acquiescence  in  their  terms,  they  insisted  because 
they  believed  that  their  military  position  entitled  them  to  expect 
it.  The  reconquest  of  Russia  and  Spain  by  Napoleon,  an  event 
almost  certain  to  happen,  could  hardly  fail  to  force  from  England 
the  concessions,  not  in  themselves  unreasonable,  which  the  United 
States  required. 

This  was,  as  Madison  to  the  end  of  his  life  maintained,  ^*a 
fair  calculation ;  *  but  it  was  exasperating  to  England,  who  thought 
that  America  ought  to  be  equally  interested  with  Europe  in  over- 
throwing the  military  despotism  of  Napoleon,  and  should  not  con- 
spire with  him  for  gain.  At  first  the  new  war  disconcerted  the 
feeble  Ministry  that  remained  in  office  on  the  death  of  Spencer 
Perceval:  they  counted  on  preventing  it,  and  did  their  utmost  to 
stop  it  after  it  was  begun.  The  tone  of  arrogance  which  had  so 
long  characterized  government  and  press  disappeared  for  the 
moment.  Obscure  newspapers,  like  the  London  Evening  Star,  still 
sneered  at  the  idea  that  Great  Britain  was  to  be  <*  driven  from 
the  proud  pre-eminence  which  the  blood  and  treasure  of  her  sons 
have  attained  for  her  among  the  nations,  by  a  piece  of  striped 
bunting  flying  at  the  mastheads  of  a  few  fir-built  frigates,  manned 
by  a  handful  of  bastards  and  outlaws,*  —  a  phrase  which  had 
great  success  in  America,  —  but  such  defiances  expressed  a  temper 
studiously  held  in  restraint  previous  to  the  moment  when  the  war 
was  seen  to  be  inevitable.     .     ,     . 


HENRY  ADAMS  ,1- 

,  The  realization  that  no  escape  could  be  found  from  an  Ameri- 
can war  was  forced  on  the  British  public  at  a  moment  of  much 
discouragement.  Almost  simultaneously  a  series  of  misfortunes 
occurred  which  brought  the  stoutest  and  most  intelligent  English- 
men to  the  verge  of  despair.  In  Spain  Wellington,  after  win- 
ning the  battle  of  Salamanca  in  July,  occupied  Madrid  in  August, 
and  obliged  Soult  to  evacuate  Andalusia;  but  his  siege  of  Burgos 
failed,  and  as  the  French  generals  concentrated  their  scattered 
forces,  Wellington  was  obliged  to  abandon  Madrid  once  more. 
October  21st  he  was  again  in  full  retreat  on  Portugal.  The 
apparent  failure  of  his  campaign  was  almost  simultaneous  with 
the  apparent  success  of  Napoleon's;  for  the  Emperor  entered 
Moscow  September  14th,  and  the  news  of  th.'s  triumph,  probably 
decisive  of  Russian  submission,  reached  England  about  Octo- 
ber 3d.  Three  days  later  arrived  intelligence  of  William  Hull's 
surrender  at  Detroit;  but  this  success  was  counterbalanced  by 
simultaneous  news  of  Isaac  Hull's  startling  capture  of  the  Guer- 
Tihre,  and  the  certainty  of  a  prolonged  war. 

In  the  desponding  condition  of  the  British  people, —  with  a  de- 
ficient harvest,  bad  weather,  wheat  at  nearly  five  dollars  a  bushel, 
and  the  American  supply  likely  to  be  cut  off;  consols  at  57/^, 
gold  at  thirty  per  cent,  premium;  a  Ministry  without  credit  or 
authority,  and  a  general  consciousness  of  blunders,  incompetence, 
and  corruption, —  every  new  tale  of  disaster  sank  the  hopes  of 
England  and  called  out  wails  of  despair  In  that  state  of  mind 
the  loss  of  the  Guerriere  assumed  portentous  dimensions.  The 
Times  was  especially  loud  in  lamenting  the  capture:  — 

<*We  witnessed  the  gloom  which  that  event  cast  over  high  and 
honorable  minds.  .  .  .  Never  before  in  the  history  of  the  world 
did  an  English  frigate  strike  to  an  American;  and  though  we  cannot 
say  that  Captain  Dacres,  under  all  circumstances,  is  punishable  for 
this  act,  yet  we  do  say  there  are  commanders  in  the  English  navy 
who  would  a  thousand  times  rather  have  gone  down  with  their  colors 
flying,  than  have  set  their  fellow  sailors  so  fatal  an  example.® 

No  country  newspaper  in  America,  railing  at  Hull's  coward- 
ice and  treachery,  showed  less  knowledge  or  judgment  than  the 
London  Times,  which  had  written  of  nothing  but  war  since  its 
name  had  been  known  in  England.  Any  American  could  have 
assured  the  English  press  that  British  frigates  before  the  Guer- 
riere had  struck  to  American;  and  even  in  England  men  had  not 
forgotten  the  name  of  the  British  frigate  Serapis,  or  that  of  the 
American  captain  Paul  Jones.  Yet  the  Times's  ignorance  was  less 
1—8 


-lif4  HENRY  ADAMS 

unreasonable  than  its  requirement  that  Dacres  should  have  gone 
down  with  his  ship, —  a  cry  of  passion  the  more  unjust  to  Dacres 
because  he  fought  his  ship  as  long  as  she  could  float.  Such 
sensitiveness  seemed  extravagant  in  a  society  which  had  been 
hardened  by  centuries  of  warfare;  yet  the  Times  reflected  fairly 
the  feelings  of  Englishmen.  George  Canning,  speaking  in  open 
Parliament  not  long  afterward,  said  that  the  loss  of  the  Guerri- 
ere  and  the  Macedonian  produced  a  sensation  in  the  country 
scarcely  to  be  equaled  by  the  most  violent  convulsions  of  nature. 
**  Neither  can  I  agree  with  those  who  complain  of  the  shock  of 
consternation  throughout  Great  Britain  as  having  been  greater 
than  the  occasion  required.  ...  It  cannot  be  too  deeply  felt 
that  the  sacred  spell  of  the  invincibility  of  the  British  navy  was 
broken  by  those  unfortunate  captures.'* 

Of  all  spells  that  could  be  cast  on  a  nation,  that  of  believing 
itself  invincible  was  perhaps  the  one  most  profitably  broken;  but 
the  process  of  recovering  its  senses  was  agreeable  to  no  nation, 
and  to  England,  at  that  moment  of  distress,  it  was  as  painful  as 
Canning  described.  The  matter  was  not  mended  by  the  Courier 
and  Morning  Post,  who,  taking  their  tone  from  the  Admiralty, 
complained  of  the  enormous  superiority  of  the  American  frigates, 
and  called  them  "  line-of- battle  ships  in  disguise.  '*  Certainly  the 
American  forty-four  was  a  much  heavier  ship  than  the  British 
thirty-eight,  but  the  difference  had  been  as  well  known  in  the 
British  navy  before  these  actions  as  it  was  afterward;  and  Cap- 
tain Dacres  himself,  the  Englishman  who  best  knew  the  relative 
force  of  the  ships,  told  his  court  of  inquiry  a  different  story:  — 
"  I  am  so  well  aware  that  the  success  of  my  opponent  was  owing 
to  fortune,  that  it  is  my  earnest  wish,  and  would  be  the  happiest 
period  of  my  life,  to  be  once  more  opposed  to  the  Constitution, 
with  them  [the  old  crew]  under  my  command,  in  a  frigate  of 
similar  force  with  the  Guerriere. '*  After  all  had  been  said,  the 
unpleasant  result  remained  that  in  future,  British  frigates,  like 
other  frigates,  could  safely  fight  only  their  inferiors  in  force. 
What  applied  to  the  Guerriere  and  Macedonian  against  the  Con- 
stitution and  United  States,  where  the  British  force  was  inferior, 
applied  equally  to  the  Frolic  against  the  Wasp,  where  no  inferi- 
ority could  be  shown.  The  British  newspapers  thenceforward 
admitted  what  America  wished  to  prove,  that,  ship  for  ship, 
British  were  no  more  than  the  equals  of  Americans. 

Society  soon  learned  to  take  a  more  sensible  view  of  the  sub- 
ject; but  as  the  first   depression   passed  away,  a  consciousness  of 


HENRY   ADAMS  „. 

personal  wrong  took  its  place.  The  United  States  were  supposed 
to  have  stabbed  England  in  the  back  at  the  moment  when  her 
hands  were  tied,  when  her  existence  was  in  the  most  deadly  peril 
and  her  anxieties  were  most  heavy.  England  never  could  forgive 
treason  so  base  and  cowardice  so  vile.  That  Madison  had  been 
from  the  first  a  tool  and  accomplice  of  Bonaparte  was  thence- 
forward so  fixed  an  idea  in  British  history  that  time  could  not 
shake  it.  Indeed,  so  complicated  and  so  historical  had  the  causes 
of  war  become  that  no  one  even  in  America  could  explain  or 
understand  them,  while  Englishmen  could  see  only  that  America 
required  England  as  the  price  of  peace  to  destroy  herself  by 
abandoning  her  naval  power,  and  that  England  preferred  to  die 
fighting  rather  than  to  die  by  her  own  hand.  The  American 
party  in  England  was  extinguished;  no  further  protest  was  heard 
against  the  war;  and  the  British  people  thought  moodily  of 
revenge. 

This  result  was  unfortunate  for  both  parties,  but  was  doubly 
unfortunate  for  America,  because  her  mode  of  making  the  issue 
told  in  her  enemy's  favor.  The  same  impressions  which  silenced 
in  England  open  sympathy  with  America,  stimulated  in  America 
acute  sympathy  with  England.  Argument  was  useless  against 
people  in  a  passion,  convinced  of  their  own  injuries.  Neither 
Englishmen  nor  Federalists  were  open  to  reasoning.  They  found 
their  action  easy  from  the  moment  they  classed  the  United  States 
as  an  ally  of  France,  like  Bavaria  or  Saxony;  and  they  had  no 
scruples  of  conscience,  for  the  practical  alliance  was  clear,  and  the 
fact  proved  sufficiently  the  intent. 

The  loss  of  two  or  three  thirty-eight -gun  frigates  on  the 
ocean  was  a  matter  of  trifling  consequence  to  the  British  govern- 
ment, which  had  a  force  of  four  ships-of-the-line  and  six  or  eight 
frigates  in  Chesapeake  Bay  alone,  and  which  built  every  year 
dozens  of  ships-of-the-line  and  frigates  to  replace  those  lost  or 
worn  out;  but  although  American  privateers  wrought  more  in- 
jury to  British  interests  than  was  caused  or  could  be  caused  by 
the  American  navy,  the  pride  of  England  cared  little  about  mer- 
cantile losses,  and  cared  immensely  for  its  fighting  reputation. 
The  theory  that  the  American  was  a  degenerate  Englishman  —  a 
theory  chiefly  due  to  American  teachings  —  lay  at  the  bottom  of 
British  politics.  Even  the  late  British  minister  at  Washington, 
Foster,  a  man  of  average  intelligence,  thought  it  manifest  good 
taste  and  good  sense  to  say  of  the  Americans  in  his  speech  of 
February    i8th^     1813,     in    Parliament,    that    **  generally    speaking. 


Ii6  HENRY  ADAMS 

they  were  not  a  people  we  should  be  proud  to  acknowledge  as 
our  relations.'*  Decatur  and  Hull  were  engaged  in  a  social 
rather  than  in  a  political  contest,  and  were  aware  that  the 
serious  work  on  their  hands  had  little  '  to  do  with  England's 
power,  but  much  to*  do  with  her  manners.  The  mortification  of 
England  at  the  capture  of  her  frigates  was  the  measure  of  her 
previous  arrogance.     .     .     . 

Every  country  must  begin  war  by  asserting  that  it  will  never 
give  way;  and  of  all  countries  England,  which  had  waged  innu- 
merable wars,  knew  best  when  perseverance  cost  more  than  con- 
cession. Even  at  that  early  moment  Parliament  was  evidently 
perplexed,  and  would  willingly  have  yielded  had  it  seen  means  of 
escape  from  its  naval  fetich,  impressment.  Perhaps  the  perplexity 
was  more  evident  in  the  Commons  than  in  the  Lords;  for  Castle- 
reagh,  while  defending  his  own  course  with  elaborate  care,  visibly 
stumbled  over  the  right  of  impressment.  Even  while  claiming 
that  its  abandonment  would  have  been  "vitally  dangerous  if  not 
fatal  '*  to  England's  security,  he  added  that  he  "  would  be  the 
last  man  in  the  world  to  underrate  the  inconvenience  which  the 
Americans  sustained  in  consequence  of  our  assertion  of  the  right 
of  search.**  The  embarrassment  became  still  plainer  when  he 
narrowed  the  question  to  one  of  statistics,  and  showed  that  the 
whole  contest  was  waged  over  the  forcible  retention  of  some 
eight  hundred  seamen  among  one  hundred  and  forty-five  thou- 
sand employed  in  British  service.  Granting  the  number  were 
twice  as  great,  he  continued,  "  would  the  House  believe  that  there 
was  any  man  so  infatuated,  or  that  the  British  empire  was  driven 
to  such  straits  that  for  such  a  paltry  consideration  as  seventeen 
hundred  sailors,  his  Majesty's  government  would  needlessly  irri- 
tate the  pride  of  a  neutral  nation  or  violate  that  justice  which 
was  due  to  one  country  from  another  ?  **  If  Liverpool's  argument 
explained  the  causes  of  war,  Castlereagh's  explained  its  inevitable 
result;  for  since  the  war  must  cost  England  at  least  10,000,000 
pounds  a  year,  could  Parliament  be  so  infatuated  as  to  pay  10,000 
pounds  a  year  for  each  American  sailor  detained  in  service,  when 
one-tenth  of  the  amount,  if  employed  in  raising  the  wages  of  the 
British  sailor,  would  bring  any  required  number  of  seamen  back 
to  their  ships?  The  whole  British  navy  in  181 2  cost  20,000,000 
pounds;  the  pay-roll  amounted  to  only  3,000,000  pounds;  the 
common  sailor  was  paid  four  pounds  bounty  and  eighteen  pounds 
a  year,  which  might  have  been  trebled  at  half  the  cost  of  an 
American  war. 


HENRY  ADAMS  jjy 


WHAT  THE  WAR   OF    1812   DEMONSTRATED 
From  < History  of  the  United  States*:   cop)rright  i8go,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
PEOPLE  whose  chief   trait   was  antipathy  to  war,   and  to  any 


A 


system  organized  with  miHtary  energ}^,  could  scarcely  develop 
great  results  in  national  administration;  yet  the  Americans 
prided  themselves  chiefly  on  their  political  capacity.  Even  the 
war  did  not  undeceive  them,  although  the  incapacity  brought  into 
evidence  by  the  war  was  undisputed,  and  was  most  remarkable 
among  the  communities  which  believed  themselves  to  be  most 
gifted  with  political  sagacity.  Virginia  and  Massachusetts  by  turns 
admitted  failure  in  dealing  with  issues  so  simple  that  the  newest 
societies,  like  Tennessee  and  Ohio,  understood  them  by  instinct. 
That  incapacity  in  national  politics  should  appear  as  a  leading 
trait  in  American  character  was  unexpected  by  Americans,  but 
might  naturally  result  from  their  conditions.  The  better  test  of 
American  character  was  not  political  but  social,  and  was  to  be 
found  not  in  the  government  but  in  the  people. 

The  sixteen  years  of  Jefferson  and  Madison's  rule  furnished 
international  tests  of  popular  intelligence  upon  which  Americans 
could  depend.  The  ocean  was  the  only  open  field  for  competition 
among  nations.  Americans  enjoyed  there  no  natural  or  artificial 
advantages  over  Englishmen,  Frenchmen,  or  Spaniards;  indeed, 
all  these  countries  possessed  navies,  resources,  and  experience 
greater  than  were  to  be  ^  found  in  the  United  States.  Yet  the 
Americans  developed,  in  the  course  of  twenty  years,  a  surprising 
degree  of  skill  in  naval  affairs.  The  evidence  of  their  success  was 
to  be  found  nowhere  so  complete  as  in  the  avowals  of  English- 
men who  knew  best  the  history  of  naval  progress.  The  Ameri 
can  invention  of  the  fast-sailing  schooner  or  clipper  was  the  more 
remarkable  because,  of  all  American  inventions,  this  alone  sprang 
from  direct  competition  with  Europe.  During  ten  centuries  of 
struggle  the  nations  of  Europe  had  labored  to  obtain  superiority 
over  each  other  in  ship-construction;  yet  Americans  instantly 
made  improvements  which  gave  them  superiority,  and  which 
Europeans  were  unable  immediately  to  imitate  even  after  seeing 
them.  Not  only  were  American  vessels  better  in  model,  faster  in 
sailing,  easier  and  quicker  in  handling,  and  more  economical  in 
working  than  the  European,  but  they  were  also  better  equipped. 
The    English    complained   as    a    grievance    that    the    Americans 


Ii8  HENRY  ADAMS 

adopted  new  and  unwarranted  devices  in  naval  warfare;  that  their 
vessels  were  heavier  and  better  constructed,  and  their  missiles  of 
unusual  shape  and  improper  use.  The  Americans  resorted  to 
expedients  that  had  not  been  tried  before,  and  excited  a  mixture 
of  irritation  and  respect  in  the  English  service,  until  **  Yankee 
smartness'*  became  a  national  misdemeanor. 

The  English  admitted  themselves  to  be  slow  to  change  their 
habits,  but  the  French  were  both  quick  and  scientific;  yet  Ameri- 
cans did  on  the  ocean  what  the  French,  under  stronger  induce- 
ments, failed  to  do.  The  French  privateer  preyed  upon  British 
commerce  for  twenty  years  without  seriously  injuring  it;  but  no 
sooner  did  the  American  privateer  sail  from  French  ports  than 
the  rates  of  insurance  doubled  in  London,  and  an  outcry  for  pro- 
tection arose  among  English  shippers  which  the  Admiralty  could 
not  calm.  The  British  newspapers  were  filled  with  assertions 
that  the  American  cruiser  was  the  superior  of  any  vessel  of  its 
class,  and  threatened  to  overthrow  England's  supremacy  on  the 
ocean. 

Another  test  of  relative  intelligence  was  furnished  by  the 
battles  at  sea.  Instantly  after  the  loss  of  the  Guerriere  the 
English  discovered  and  complained  that  American  gunnery  was 
superior  to  their  own.  They  explained  their  inferiority  by  the 
length  of  time  that  had  elapsed  since  their  navy  had  found  on 
the  ocean  an  enemy  to  fight.  Every  vestige  of  hostile  fleets  had 
been  swept  away,  until,  after  the  battle  of  Trafalgar,  British 
frigates  ceased  practice  with  their  guns.  Doubtless  the  British 
navy  had  become  somewhat  careless  in  the  absence  of  a  danger- 
ous enemy,  but  Englishmen  were  themselves  aware  that  some 
other  cause  must  have  affected  their  losses.  Nothing  showed  that 
Nelson's  line-of-battle  ships,  frigates,  or  sloops  were,  as  a  rule, 
better  fought  than  the  Macedonian  and  Java,  the  Avon  and 
Reindeer.  Sir  Howard  Douglas,  the  chief  authority  on  the 
subject,  attempted  in  vain  to  explain  British  reverses  by  the 
deterioration  of  British  gunner)'-.  His  analysis  showed  only  that 
American  gunnery  was  extraordinarily  good.  Of  all  vessels,  the 
sloop-of-war  —  on  account  of  its  smallness.  its  quick  motion,  and 
its  more  accurate  armament  of  thirty-two-pound  carronades — 
offered  the  best  test  of  relative  gunnery,  and  Sir  Howard  Douglas 
in  commenting  upon  the  destruction  of  the  Peacock  and  Avon 
could  only  say :  —  "In  these  two  actions  it  is  clear  that  the  fire  of 
the  British  vensfels  was  thitrwn   tb'o  high,  and   that   the   ordnance 


HENRY  ADAMS 


119 


of  their  opponents  were  expressly  and  carefully  aimed  at  and 
took  effect  chiefly  in  the  hull." 

The  battle  of  the  Hornet  and  Pengfiiin,  as  well  as  those  of 
the  Reindeer  and  Avon,  showed  that  the  excellence  of  American 
ginnery  continued  till  the  close  of  the  war.  Whether  at  point- 
blank  range  or  at  long-distance  practice,  the  Americans  used  guns 
as  they  had  never  been  used  at  sea  before. 

None  of  the  reports  of  former  British  victories  showed  that 
the  British  fire  had  been  more  destructive  at  any  previous  time 
than  in  181 2,  and  no  report  of  any  commander  since  the  British 
nav}^  existed  showed  so  much  damage  inflicted  on  an  opponent  in 
so  short  a  time  as  was  proved  to  have  been  inflicted  on  them- 
selves by  the  reports  of  British  commanders  in  the  American 
war.  The  strongest  proof  of  American  superiority  was  given  by 
the  best  British  officers,  like  Broke,  who  strained  ever}-  nerve  to 
maintain  an  equality  with  American  gunnery.  So  instantaneous 
and  energetic  was  the  effort  that  according  to  the  British  historian 
of  the  war,  "A  British  forty-six-gun  frigate  of  1813  was  half  as 
effective  again  as  a  British  forty-six-gun  frigate  of  181 2;"  and  as 
he  justly  said,  ^Hhe  slaughtered  crews  and  the  shattered  hulks"  of 
the  captured  British  ships  proved  that  no  want  of  their  old  fight- 
ing qualities  accounted  for  their  repeated  and  almost  habitual 
mortifications. 

Unwilling  as  the  English  were  to  admit  the  superior  skill  of 
Americans  on  the  ocean,  they  did  not  hesitate  to  admit  it,  in 
certain  respects,  on  land.  The  American  rifle  in  American  hands 
was  affirmed  to  have  no  equal  in  the  world.  This  admission 
could  scarcely  be  withheld  after  the  lists  of  killed  and  wounded 
which  followed  almost  every  battle;  but  the  admission  served  to 
check  a  wider  inquiry.  In  truth,  the  rifle  played  but  a  small  part 
in  the  war.  Winchester's  men  at  the  river  Raisin  may  have 
owed  their  over-confidence,  as  the  British  Forty-first  owed  its 
losses,  to  that  weapon,  and  at  New  Orleans  five  or  six  himdred 
of  Coffee's  men,  who  were  out  of  range,  were  armed  with  the 
rifle;  but  the  surprising  losses  of  the  British  were  commonly  due 
to  artiller}-  and  musketry  fire.  At  New  Orleans  the  artillery  was 
chiefly  engaged.  The  artillery  battle  of  January  ist,  according  to 
British  accounts,  amply  proved  the  superiority  of  American 
gunnery  on  that  occasion,  which  was  probably  the  fairest  test 
during  the  war.  The  battle  of  January  8th  was  also  chiefly  an 
artillery  battle:  the  main  British  column  never  arrived  within  fair 


120  HENRY   ADAMS 

musket  range;  Pakenham  was  killed  by  a  grape-shot,  and  the 
main  column  of  his  troops  halted  more  than  one  hundred  yards 
from  the  parapet. 

The  best  test  of  British  and  American  military  qualities,  both 
for  men  and  weapons,  was  Scott's  battle  of  Chippawa.  Nothing 
intervened  to  throw  a  doubt  over  the  fairness  of  the  trial  Two 
parallel  lines  of  regular  soldiers,  practically  equal  in  numbers, 
armed  with  similar  weapons,  moved  in  close  order  toward  each 
other  across  a  wide,  open  plain,  without  cover  or  advantage  of 
position,  stopping  at  intervals  to  load  and  fire,  until  one  line 
broke  and  retired.  At  the  same  time  two  three-gun  batteries, 
the  British  being  the  heavier,  maintained  a  steady  fire  from  posi- 
tions opposite  each  other.  According  to  the  reports,  the  two 
infantry  lines  in  the  centre  never  came  nearer  than  eighty  yards. 
Major-General  Riall  reported  that  then,  owing  to  severe  losses, 
his  troops  broke  and  could  not  be  rallied.  Comparison  of  official 
reports  showed  that  the  British  lost  in  killed  and  wounded  four 
hundred  and  sixty-nine  men;  the  Americans,  two  hundred  and 
ninety-six.  Some  doubts  always  affect  the  returns  of  wounded, 
because  the  severity  of  the  wound  cannot  be  known;  but  dead 
men  tell  their  own  tale.  Riall  reported  one  hundred  and  forty- 
eight  killed;  Scott  reported  sixty-one.  The  severity  of  the  losses 
showed  that  the  battle  was  sharply  contested,  and  proved  the 
personal  bravery  of  both  armies.  Marksmanship  decided  the  re- 
sult, and  the  returns  proved  that  the  American  fire  was  superior 
to  that  of  the  British  in  the  proportion  of  more  than  fifty  per 
cent,  if  estimated  by  the  entire  loss,  and  of  two  hundred  and 
forty-two  to  one  hundred  if  estimated  by  the  deaths  alone. 

The  conclusion  seemed  incredible,  but  it  was  supported  by  the 
results  of  the  naval  battles.  The  Americans  showed  superiority 
amounting  in  some  cases  to  twice  the  efficiency  of  their  enemies 
in  the  use  of  weapons.  The  best  French  critic  of  the  naval  war, 
Jurien  de  la  Graviere,  said :  — "  An  enormous  superiority  in  the 
rapidity  and  precision  of  their  fire  can  alone  explain  the  differ- 
ence in  the  losses  sustained  by  the  combatants.**  So  far  from 
denying  this  conclusion,  the  British  press  constantly  alleged  it, 
and  the  British  officers  complained  of  it.  The  discovery  caused 
great  surprise,  and  in  both  British  services  much  attention  was 
at  once  directed  to  improvement  in  artillery  and  musketry.  Noth- 
ing could  exceed  the  frankness  with  which  Englishmen  avowed 
their  inferiority,     According  to  Sir   Francis    Head,   "  gunnery  was 


HENRY  ADAMS  121 

in  naval  warfare  in  the  extraordinary  state  of  ignorance  we  have 
just  described,  when  our  lean  children,  the  American  people, 
taught  us,  rod  in  hand,  our  first  lesson  in  the  art.**  The  English 
text-book  on  Naval  Gunnery,  written  by  Major-General  Sir  How- 
ard Douglas  immediately  after  the  peace,  devoted  more  attention 
to  the  short  American  war  than  to  all  the  battles  of  Napoleon, 
and  began  by  admitting  that  Great  Britain  had  "entered  with  too 
great  confidence  on  war  with  a  marine  much  more  expert  than 
that  of  any  of  our  European  enemies.'*  The  admission  appeared 
"  objectionable  **  even  to  the  author ;  but  he  did  not  add,  what 
was  equally  true,  that  it  applied  as  well  to  the  land  as  to  the  sea 
service. 

No  one  questioned  the  bravery  of  the  British  forces,  or  the 
ease  with  which  they  often  routed  larger  bodies  of  militia ;  but . 
the  losses  they  inflicted  were  rarely  as  great  as  those  they  suf- 
fered. Even  at  Bladensburg,  where  they  met  little  resistance,  their 
loss  was  several  times  greater  than  that  of  the  Americans.  At 
Plattsburg,  where  the  intelligence  and  quickness  of  Macdonough 
and  his  men  alone  won  the  victory,  his  ships  were  in  effect  sta- 
tionary batteries,  and  enjoyed  the  same  superiority  in  gunnery. 
"The  Saratoga,"  said  his  official  report,  "had  fifty-five  round-shot 
in  her  hull;  the  Confiance,  one  himdred  and  five.  The  enemy's 
shot  passed  principally  just  over  our  heads,  as  there  were  not 
twenty  whole  hammocks  in  the  nettings  at  the  close  of  the  action.* 

Th'  greater  skill  of  the  Americans  was  not  due  to  special 
training;  for  the  British  service  was  better  trained  in  gunnery,  as 
in  everything  else,  than  the  motley  armies  and  fleets  that  fought 
at  New  Orleans  and  on  the  Lakes.  Critics  constantly  said  that 
every  American  had  learned  from  his  childhood  the  use  of  the 
rifle;  but  he  certainly  had  not  learned  to  use  cannon  in  shooting 
birds  or  hunting  deer,  and  he  knew  less  than  the  Englishman 
about  the  handling  of  artillery  and  muskets.  The  same  intelli- 
gence that  selected  the  rifle  and  the  long  pivot-gun  for  favorite 
weapons  was  shown  in  handling  the  carronade,  and  every  other 
instrument  however  clumsy. 

Another  significant  result  of  the  war  was  the  sudden  develop- 
ment of  scientific  engineering  in  the  United  States.  This  branch 
of  the  military  service  owed  its  efficiency  and  almost  its  existence 
to  the  military  school  at  West  Point,  established  in  1802.  The 
school  was  at  first  much  neglected  by  government.  The  number 
pf  graduates  before   the  year  ,1812  was   very  small;    but   at   the 


122  '  HENRY  ADAMS 

outbreak  of  the  war  the  corps  of  engineers  was  already  efficient. 
Its  chief  was  Colonel  Joseph  Gardner  Swift,  of  Massachusetts, 
the  first  graduate  of  the  academy:  Colonel  Swift  planned  the 
defenses  of  New  York  Harbor.  The  lieutenant-colonel  in  1812 
^vas  Walker  Keith  Armistead,  of  Virginia, —  the  third  graduate, 
who  planned  the  defenses  of  Norfolk.  Major  William  McRee,  of 
North  Carolina,  became  chief  engineer  to  General  Brown  and 
constructed  the  fortifications  at  Fort  Erie,  which  cost  the  British 
General  Gordon  Drummond  the  loss  of  half  his  army,  besides  the 
mortification  of  defeat.  Captain  Eleazer  Derby  Wood,  of  New 
York,  constructed  Fort  Meigs,  which  enabled  Harrison  to  defeat 
the  attack  of  Proctor  in  May,  18 13.  Captain  Joseph  Gilbert 
Totten,  of  New  York,  was  chief  engineer  to  General  Izard  at 
Plattsburg,  where  he  directed  the  fortifications  that  stopped  the 
advance  of  Prevost's  great  army.  None  of  the  works  constructed 
by  a  graduate  of  West  Point  was  captured  by  the  enemy;  and 
had  an  engineer  been  employed  at  Washington  by  Armstrong 
and  Winder,  the  city  would  have  been  easily  saved. 

Perhaps  without  exaggeration  the  West  Point  Academy  might 
be  said  to  have  decided,  next  to  the  navy,  the  result  of  the  war. 
The  works  at  New  Orleans  were  simple  in  character,  and  as  far 
as  they  were  due  to  engineering  skill  were  directed  by  Major 
Latour,  a  Frenchman;  but  the  war  was  already  ended  when  the 
battle  of  New  Orleans  was  fought.  During  the  critical  campaign 
of  1 8 14,  the  West  Point  engineers  doubled  the  capacity  of  the 
little  American  army  for  resistance,  and  introduced  a  new  and 
scientific  character  into  American  life. 


THE  BATTLE  BETWi^EN  THE  CONSTITUTION  AND  THE  GUER- 

RIERE 

From  <  History  of  the  United  States  >:   copyright  1890,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

As  Broke's  squadron  swept  along  the  coast  it  seized  whatever 
it  met,  and  on  July  i6th  caught  one  of  President  Jefferson's 
sixteen-gun  brigs,  the  Nautilus.  The  next  day  it  came  on 
a  richer  prize.  The  American  navy  seemed  ready  to  outstrip  the 
army  in  the  race  for  disaster.  The  Constitution,  the  best  frigate 
in  the  United  States  service,  sailed  into  the  midst  of  Broke's  five 
ships.  Captain  Isaac  Hull,  in  command  of  the  Constitution,  had 
been  detained   at  Annapolis  shipping  a  new  crew  until   July  5th, 


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HENRY   ADAMS 


123 


the  day  when  Broke's  squadron  left  Halifax;  then  the  ship  got 
under  way  and  stood  down  Chesapeake  Bay  on  her  voyage  to 
New  York.  The  wind  was  ahead  and  very  light.  Not  until  July 
loth  did  the  ship  anchor  off  Cape  Henry  lighthouse,  and  not  till 
sunrise  of  July  12th  did  she  stand  to  the  eastward  and  northward. 
Light  head  winds  and  a  strong  current  delayed  her  progress  till 
July  17th,  when  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  off  Bamegat  on 
the  New  Jersey  coast,  the  lookout  at  the  masthead  discovered 
four  sails  to  the  northward,  and  two  hours  later  a  fifth  sail  to  the 
northeast.  Hull  took  them  for  Rodgers's  squadron.  The  wind 
was  light,  and  Hull  being  to  windward  determined  to  speak  the 
nearest  vessel,  the  last  to  come  in  sight.  The  afternoon  passed 
without  bringing  the  ships  together,  and  at  ten  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  finding  that  the  nearest  ship  could  not  answer  the  night 
signal,  Hull  decided  to  lose  no  time  in  escaping. 

Then  followed  one  of  the  most  exciting  and  sustained  chases 
recorded  in  naval  history.  At  daybreak  the  next  morning  one 
British  frigate  was  astern  within  five  or  six  miles,  two  more  were 
to  leeward,  and  the  rest  of  the  fleet  some  ten  miles  astern,  all 
making  chase.  Hull  put  out  his  boats  to  tow  the  Constitution; 
Broke  summoned  the  boats  of  the  squadron  to  tow  the  Shannon. 
Hull  then  bent  all  his  spare  rope  to  the  cables,  dropped  a  small 
anchor  half  a  mile  ahead,  in  twenty-six  fathoms  of  water,  and 
warped  his  ship  along.  Broke  quickly  imitated  the  device,  and 
slowly  gained  on  the  chase.  The  Guerriere  crept  so  near  Hull's 
lee  beam  as  to  open  fire,  but  her  shot  fell  short.  Fortunately  the 
wind,  though  slight,  favored  Hull.  All  night  the  British  and 
American  crews  toiled  on,  and  when  morning  came  the  Belvidera, 
proving  to  be  the  best  sailer,  got  in  advance  of  her  consorts, 
working  two  kedge  anchors,  until  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
she  tried  in  her  turn  to  reach  the  Constitution  with  her  bow 
guns,  but  in  vain.  Hull  expected  capture,  but  the  Belvidera 
could  not  approach  nearer  without  bringing  her  boats  under  the 
Constitution's  stem  guns;  and  the  wearied  crews  toiled  on,  towing 
and  kedging,  the  ships  barely  out  of  gunshot,  till  another  morn- 
ing came.  The  breeze,  though  still  light,  then  allowed  Hull  to 
take  in  his  boats,  the  Belvidera  being  two  and  a  half  miles  in  his 
wake,  the  Shannon  three  and  a  half  miles  on  his  lee,  and  the 
three  other  frigates  well  to  leeward.  The  wind  freshened,  and 
the  Constitution  drew  ahead,  until,  toward  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening  of  July  igth,  a  heavy  rain  s;quall  struck  the  ^ip,  and  by 


124  HENRY  ADAMS 

taking  skillful  advantage  of  it  Hull  left  the  Belvidera  and  Shan- 
non far  astern;  yet  until  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning  they 
were  still  in  sight,  keeping  up  the  chase. 

Perhaps  nothing  during  the  war  tested  American  seamanship 
more  thoroughly  than  these  three  days  of  combined  skill  and 
endurance  in  the  face  of  the  irresistible  enemy.  The  result 
showed  that  Hull  and  the  Constitution  had  nothing  to  fear  in 
these  respects.  There  remained  the  question  whether  the  superi- 
ority extended  to  his  guns;  and  such  was  the  contempt  of  the 
British  naval  officers  for  American  ships,  that  with  this  experi- 
ience  before  their  eyes  they  still  believed  one  of  their  thirty-eight- 
gun  frigates  to  be  more  than  a  match  for  an  American  forty-four, 
although  the  American,  besides  the  heavier  armament,  had  proved 
his  capacity  to  outsail  and  out-manoeuvre  the  Englishman.  Both 
parties  became  more  eager  than  ever  for  the  test.  For  once,  even 
the  Federalists  of  New  England  felt  their  blood  stir;  for  their 
own  President  and  their  own  votes  had  called  these  frigates  into 
existence,  and  a  victory  won  by  the  Constitution,  which  had  been 
built  by  their  hands,  was  in  their  eyes  a  greater  victory  over 
their  political  opponents  than  over  the  British.  With  no  half- 
hearted spirit  the  seagoing  Bostonians  showered  well-weighed 
praises  on  Hull  when  his  ship  entered  Boston  Harbor,  July  26th, 
after  its  narrow  escape,  and  when  he  sailed  again  New  England 
waited  with  keen  interest  to  learn  his  fate. 

Hull  could  not  expect  to  keep  command  of  the  Constitution. 
Bainbridge  was  much  his  senior,  and  had  the  right  to  a  prefer- 
ence in  active  service.  Bainbridge  then  held  and  was  ordered  to 
retain  command  of  the  Constellation,  fitting  out  at  the  Wash- 
ington Navy  Yard;  but  Secretary  Hamilton,  July  28th,  ordered 
him  to  take  command  also  of  the  Constitution  on  her  arrival  in 
port.  Doubtless  Hull  expected  this  change,  and  probably  the 
expectation  induced  him  to  risk  a  dangerous  experiment;  for 
without  bringing  his  ship  to  the  Charlestown  Navy  Yard,  but 
remaining  in  the  outer  harbor,  after  obtaining  such  supplies  as  he 
needed,  August  2d,  he  set  sail  without  orders,  and  stood  to  the 
eastward.  Having  reached  Cape  Race  without  meeting  an  enemy, 
he  turned  southward,  until  on  the  night  of  August  i8th  he  spoke 
a  privateer,  which  told  him  of  a  British  frigate  near  at  hand. 
Following  the  privateersman's  directions,  the  Constitution  the  next 
day,  August  19th,  [18 12,]  at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  latitude 
41  deg.  42  min.,  longitude  55  deg.  48  min.,  sighted  the  Guerriere. 


HENRY  ADAMS  X25 

The  meeting  was  welcome  on  both  sides.  Only  three  days 
before,  Captain  Dacres  had  entered  on  the  log  of  a  merchantman 
a  challenge  to  any  American  frigate  to  meet  him  off  Sandy  Hook. 
Not  only  had  the  Guerriere  for  a  long  time  been  extremely  offens- 
ive to  every  seafaring  American,  but  the  mistake  which  caused 
the  Little  Belt  to  suffer  so  seriously  for  the  misfortune  of  being 
taken  for  the  Guerriere  had  caused  a  corresponding  feeling  of 
anger  in  the  officers  of  the  British  frigate.  The  meeting  of  Au- 
gust 19th  had  the  character  of  a  preconcerted  duel. 

The  wind  was  blowing  fresh  from  the  northwest,  with  the  sea 
running  high.  Dacres  backed  his  main  topsail  and  waited.  Hull 
shortened  sail,  and  ran  down  before  the  wind.  For  about  an 
hour  the  two  ships  wore  and  wore  again,  trying  to  get  advantage 
of  position;  until  at  last,  a  few  minutes  before  six  o'clock,  they 
came  together  side  by  side,  within  pistol  shot,  the  wind  almost 
astern,  and  running  before  it,  they  pounded  each  other  with  all 
their  strength.  As  rapidly  as  the  guns  could  be  worked,  the 
Constitution  poured  in  broadside  after  broadside,  double -shotted 
with  round  and  grape;  and  without  exaggeration,  the  echo  of 
these  guns  startled  the  world.  "  In  less  than  thirty  minutes  from 
the  time  we  got  alongside  of  the  enemy,  *^  reported  Hull,  **  she 
was  left  without  a  spar  standing,  and  the  hull  cut  to  pieces  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  make  it  difficult   to   keep   her  above  water.  ^* 

That  Dacres  should  have  been  defeated  was  not  surprising; 
that  he  should  have  expected  to  win  was  an  example  of  British 
arrogance  that  explained  and  excused  the  war.  The  length  of  the 
Constitution  was  one  hundred  and  seventy-three  feet,  that  of  the 
Guerriere  was  one  hundred  and  fifty-six  feet;  the  extreme  breadth 
of  the  Constitution  was  forty-four  feet,  that  of  the  Guerriere  was 
forty  feet:  or  within  a  few  inches  in  both  cases.  The  Consti- 
tution carried  thirty-two  long  twenty-four-pounders,  the  Guerri- 
ere thirty  long  eighteen-pounders  and  two  long  twelve-pounders; 
the  Constitution  carried  twenty  thirty-two-pound  carronades,  the 
Guerriere  sixteen.  In  every  respect,  and  in  proportion  of  ten  to 
seven,  the  Constitution  was  the  better  ship;  her  crew  was  more 
numerous  in  proportion  of  ten  to  six.  Dacres  knew  this  very 
nearly  as  well  as  it  was  known  to  Hull,  yet  he  sought  a  duel. 
What  he  did  not  know  was  that  in  a  still  greater  proportion 
the  American  officers  and  crew  were  better  and  more  intelligent 
seamen  than  the  British,  and  that  their  passionate  wish  to  repay 
old    scores   gave   them    extraordinary   energy.      So    much    greater 


126  HENRY  ADAMS 

was  the  moral  superiority  than  the  physical,  that  while  the 
Guem^re's  force  counted  as  seven  against  ten,  her  losses  counted 
as  though  her  force  were  only  two  against  ten. 

Dacres's  error  cost  him  dear;  for  among  the  Guerriere's  crew 
of  two  hundred  and  seventy-two,  seventy-nine  were  killed  or 
wounded,  and  the  ship  was  injured  beyond  saving  before  Dacres 
realized  his  mistake,  although  he  needed  only  thirty  minutes  of 
close  fighting  for  the  purpose.  He  never  fully  understood  the 
causes  of  his  defeat,  and  never  excused  it  by  pleading,  as  he 
might  have  done,  the  great  superiority  of  his  enemy. 

Hull  took  his  prisoners  on  board  the  Constitution,  and  after 
blowing  up  the  Guerrifere  sailed  for  Boston,  where  he  arrived  on 
the  morning  of  August  30th.  The  Sunday  silence  of  the  Puritan 
city  broke  into  excitement  as  the  news  passed  through  the  quiet 
streets  that  the  Constitution  was  below  in  the  outer  harbor  with 
Dacres  and  his  crew  prisoners  on  board.  No  experience  of  his- 
tory ever  went  to  the  heart  of  New  England  more  directly  than 
this  victory,  so  peculiarly  its  own :  but  the  delight  was  not  confined 
to  New  England,  and  extreme  though  it  seemed,  it  was  still  not 
extravagant;  for  however  small  the  affair  might  appear  on  the 
general  scale  of  the  world's  battles,  it  raised  the  United  States 
in  one  half-hour  to  the  rank  of  a  first  class   Power   in   the  world. 


12^' 


JOHN   ADAMS 

(1735-1826) 

^OHN  Adams,  second  President  of  the  United  States,  was  born 
at  Braintree,  Massachusetts,  October  19th,  1735,  ^^^  died 
there  July  4th,  1826,  the  year  after  his  son  too  was  inaugu- 
rated President.  He  was  the  first  conspicuous  member  of  an  endur- 
ingly  powerful  and  individual  family.  The  Adams  race  have  mostly 
been  vehement,  proud,  pugnacious,  and  independent,  with  hot  tempers 
and  strong  wills;  but  with  high  ideals,  dramatic  devotion  to  duty, 
and  the  intense  democratic  sentiment  so  often  found  united  with 
personal  aristocracy  of  feeling.  They  have  been  men  of  affairs  first, 
with  large  practical  ability,  but  with  a  deep  strain  of  the  man  of 
letters  which  in  this  generation  has  outshone  the  other  faculties; 
strong-headed  and  hard-working  students,  with  powerful  memories 
and  fluent  gifts  of  expression. 

All  these  cnaracteristics  went  to  make  up  John  Adams;  but  their 
enumeration  does  not  furnish  a  complete  picture  of  him,  or  reveal  the 
virile,  choleric,  masterful  man.  And  he  was  far  more  lovable  and  far 
more  popular  than  his  equally  great  son,  also  a  typical  Adams,  from 
the  same  cause  which  produced  some  of  his  worst  blunders  and  mis- 
fortunes,—  a  generous  impulsiveness  of  feeling  which  made  it  impos- 
sible for  him  to  hold  his  tongue  at  the  wrong  time  and  place  for 
talking.  But  so  fervid,  combative,  and  opinionated  a  man  was  sure 
to  gain  much  more  hate  than  love;  because  love  results  from  compre- 
hension, which  only  the  few  close  to  him  could  have,  while  hate  — 
toward  an  honest  man  —  is  the  outcome  of  ignorance,  which  most  of 
the  world  cannot  avoid.  Admiration  and  respect,  however,  he  had 
from  the  majority  of  his  party  at  the  worst  of  times;  and  the  best 
encomium  on  him  is  that  the  closer  his  public  acts  are  examined,  the 
more  credit  they  reflect  not  only  on  his  abilities  but  on  his  unselfish- 
ness. 

Born  of  a  line  of  Massachusetts  farmers,  he  graduated  from  Har- 
vard in  1755.  After  teaching  a  grammar  school  and  beginning  to  read 
theology,  he  studied  law  and  began  practice  in  1758,  soon  becoming 
a  leader  at  the  bar  and  in  public  life.  In  1764  he  married  the  noble 
and  delightful  woman  whose  letters  furnish  unconscious  testimony  to 
his  lovable  qualities.  All  through  the  germinal  years  of  the  Revolu- 
tion   he    was    one    of    the    foremost    patriots,    steadily    opposing    any 


13^  JOHN  ADAMS 

abandonment  or  compromise  of  essential  rights.  In  1765  he  was 
counsel  for  Boston  with  Otis  and  Gridley  to  support  the  town's 
memorial  against  the  Stamp  Act.  In  1766  he  was  selectman.  In  1768 
the  royal  government  offered  him  the  post  of  advocate-general  in  the 
Court  of  Admiralty, —  a  lucrative  bribe  to  desert  the  opposition;  but 
he  refused  it.  Yet  in  1770.  as  a  matter  of  high  professional  duty,  he 
became  counsel  (successfully)  for  the  British  soldiers  on  trial  for  the 
« Boston  Massacre.'^  Though  there  was  a  present  uproar  of  abuse, 
Mr.  Adams  was  shortly  after  elected  Representative  to  the  General 
Court  by  more  than  three  to  one.  In  March,  1774,  he  contemplated 
writing  the  « History  of  the  Contest  between  Britain  and  America!" 
On  June  17th  he  presided  over  the  meeting  at  Faneuil  Hall  to  con- 
sider the  Boston  Port  Bill,  and  at  the  same  hour  was  elected  Repre- 
sentative to  the  first  Congress  at  Philadelphia  (September  i)  by  the 
Provincial  Assembly  held  in  defiance  of  the  government.  Returning 
thence,  he  engaged  in  newspaper  debate  on  the  political  issues  till 
the  battle  of  Lexington. 

Shortly  after,  he  again  journeyed  to  Philadelphia  to  the  Congress 
of  May  5th,  1775;  where  he  did  on  his  own  motion,  to  the  disgust 
of  his  Northern  associates  and  the  reluctance  even  of  the  Southern- 
ers, one  of  the  most  important  and  decisive  acts  of  the  Revolution, — 
induced  Congress  to  adopt  the  forces  in  New  England  as  a  national 
army  and  put  George  Washington  of  Virginia  at  its  head,  thus 
engaging  the  Southern  colonies  irrevocably  in  the  war  and  securing 
the  one  man  who  could  make  it  a  success.  In  1776  he  was  a  chief 
agent  in  carrying  a  declaration  of  independence.  He  remained  in 
Congress  till  November,  1777,  as  head  of  the  War  Department,  very 
useful  and  laborious  though  making  one  dreadful  mistake:  he  was 
largely  responsible  for  the  disastrous  policy  of  ignoring  the  just 
claims  and  decent  dignity  of  the  military  commanders,  which  lost  the 
country  some  of  its  best  officers  and  led  directly  to  Arnold's  treason. 
His  reasons,  exactly  contrary  to  his  wont,  were  good  abstract  logic 
but  thorough  practical  nonsense. 

In  December,  1777,  he  was  appointed  commissioner  to  France  to 
succeed  Silas  Deane,  and  after  being  chased  by  an  English  man-of- 
war  (which  he  wanted  to  fight)  arrived  at  Paris  in  safety.  There 
he  reformed  a  very  bad  state  of  affairs;  but  thinking  it  absurd  to 
keep  three  envoys  at  one  court  (Dr.  Franklin  and  Arthur  Lee  were 
there  before  him),  he  induced  Congress  to  abolish  his  office,  and 
returned  in  1779.  Chosen  a  delegate  to  the  Massachusetts  constitu- 
tional convention,  he  was  called  away  from  it  to  be  sent  again  to 
France.  There  he  remained  as  Franklin's  colleague,  detesting  and 
distrusting  him  and  the  French  foreign  minister,  Vergennes,  embroil- 
ing  himself  with  both   and  earning  a  cordial  return  of  his  warmest 


JOHN  ADAMS  I2g 

dislike  from  both,  till  July,  1780.  He  then  went  to  Holland  as  volun- 
teer minister,  and  in  1782  was  formally  recognized  as  from  an  inde- 
pendent nation.  Meantime  Vergennes  intrigued  with  all  his  might  to 
have  Adams  recalled,  and  actually  succeeded  in  so  tying  his  hands 
that  half  the  advantages  of  independence  would  have  been  lost  but 
for  his  contumacious  persistence.  In  the  final  negotiations  for  peace, 
he  persisted  against  his  instructions  in  making  the  New  England  fish- 
eries an  ultimatum,  and  saved  them.  In  1783  he  was  commissioned 
to  negotiate  a  commercial  treaty  with  Great  Britain,  and  in  1785  was 
made  minister  to  that  power.  The  wretched  state  of  American  affairs 
under  the  Confederation  made  it  impossible  to  obtain  any  advantages 
for  his  country,  and  the  vindictive  feeling  of  the  English  made  his 
life  a  purgatory,  so  that  he  was  glad  to  come  home  in  1788. 

In  the  first  Presidential  election  of  that  year  he  was  elected  Vice- 
President  on  the  ticket  with  Washington ;  and  began  a  feud  with 
Alexander  Hamilton,  the  mighty  leader  of  the  Federalist  party  and 
chief  organizer  of  our  governmental  machine,  which  ended  in  the 
overthrow  of  the  party  years  before  its  time,  and  had  momentous 
personal  and  literary  results  as  well.  He  was  as  good  a  Federalist 
as  Hamilton,  and  felt  as  much  right  to  be  leader  if  he  could;  Hamil- 
ton would  not  surrender  his  leadership,  and  the  rivalry  never  ended 
till  Hamilton's  murder.  In  1796  he  was  elected  President  against 
Jefferson.  His  Presidency  is  recognized  as  one  of  the  ablest  and 
most  useful  on  the  roll;  but  its  personal  memoirs  are  most  painful 
and  scandalous.  The  cabinet  were  nearly  all  Hamiltonians,  regularly 
laid  all  the  ofPcial  secrets  before  Hamilton,  and  took  advice  from 
him  to  thwart  the  President.  They  disliked  Mr.  Adams's  overbear- 
ing ways  and  obtrusive  vanity,  considered  his  policy  destructive  to 
the  party  and  injurious  to  the  country,  and  felt  that  loyalty  to 
these  involved  and  justified  disloyalty  to  him.  Finally  his  best  act 
brought  on  an  explosion.  The  French  Directory  had  provoked  a  war 
with  this  country,  which  the  Hamiltonian  section  of  the  leaders 
and  much  of  the  party  hailed  with  delight;  but  showing  signs  of  a 
better  spirit,  Mr.  Adams,  without  consulting  his  Cabinet,  who  he  knew 
would  oppose  it  almost  or  quite  unanimously,  nominated  a  commis- 
sion to  frame  a  treaty  with  France.  The  storm  of  fury  that  broke 
on  him  from  his  party  has  rarely  been  surpassed,  even  in  the  case  of 
traitors  outright,  and  he  was  charged  with  being  little  better.  He 
was  renominated  for  President  in  1800,  but  beaten  by  Jefferson,  owing 
to  the  defections  in  his  own  party,  largely  of  Hamilton's  producing. 
The  Federalist  party  never  won  another  election;  the  Hamilton  sec- 
tion laid  its  death  to  Mr.  Adams,  and  American  history  is  hot  with 
the  fires  of  this  battle  even  yet.  Henry  Adams's  great  History  is 
only  a  small  item  in  the  immense  literature  it  has  produced. 
1-9 


130  JOHN  ADAMS 

Mr.  Adams's  later  years  were  spent  at  home,  where  he  was  always 
interested  in  public  affairs  and  sometimes  much  too  free  in  com- 
ments on  them;  where  he  read  immensely  and  wrote  somewhat.  He 
heartily  approved  his  son's  break  with  the  Federalists  on  the  Em- 
bargo. He  died  on  the  same  day  as  Jefferson,  both  on  the  fiftieth 
anniversary  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 

As  a  writer  Mr.  Adams's  powers  show  best  in  the  work  which 
can  hardly  be  classed  as  literature, — his  forcible  and  bitter  political 
letters,  diatribes,  and  polemics.  As  in  his  life,  his  merits  and  defects 
not  only  lie  side  by  side,  but  spring  from  the  same  source, — his 
vehemence,  self-confidence,  and  impatience  of  obstruction.  He  writes 
impetuously  because  he  feels  impetuously.  With  little  literary  grace, 
he  possesses  the  charm  that  belongs  to  clear  and  energetic  thought 
and  sense  transfused  with  hot  emotion.  John  Fiske  goes  so  far  as  to 
say  that  «as  a  writer  of  English,  John  Adams  in  many  respects  sur- 
passed all  his  American  contemporaries.'*  He  was  by  no  means  with- 
out humor, —  a  characteristic  which  shows  in  some  of  his  portraits, — 
and  sometimes  realized  the  humorous  aspects  of  his  own  intense  and 
exaggerative  temperament.  His  remark  about  Timothy  Pickering, 
that  « under  the  simple  appearance  of  a  bald  head  and  straight  hair, 
he  conceals  the  most  ambitious  designs,"  is  perfectly  self-conscious 
in  its  quaint  naivete. 

His  *Life  and  Works,*  edited  by  his  grandson,  Charles  Francis 
Adams,  Sr. ,  in  ten  volumes,  is  the  great  storehouse  of  his  writings. 
The  best  popular  account  of  his  life  is  by  John  T.  Morse,  Jr.,  in  the 
^American  Statesmen*  series. 


AT  THE   FRENCH   COURT 
From  his  Diary,  June  7th,  1778,  with  his  later  comments  in  brackets 

WENT  to  Versailles,  in  company  with  Mr.  Lee,  Mr.  Izard 
and  his  lady,  Mr  Lloyd  and  his  lady,  and  Mr.  Frangois. 
Saw  the  grand  procession  of  the  Knights  du  Saint-Esprit, 
or  du  Cordon  Bleu.  At  nine  o'clock  at  night  went  to  the  grand 
convert^  and  saw  the  king,  queen,  and  royal  family  at  supper; 
had  a  fine  seat  and  situation  close  by  the  royal  family,  and  had 
a  distinct  and  full  view  of  the  royal  pair. 

[Our  objects  were  to  see  the  ceremonies  of  the  knights,  and 
in  the  evening  the  public  supper  of  the  royal  family.  The 
kneelings,  the  bows,  and  the  courtesies  of  the  knights,  the 
dresses    and    decorations,    the    king    seated    on    his    throne,    his 


JOHN  ADAMS  j,, 

investiture  of  a  new  created  knight  with  the  badges  and  orna- 
ments of  the  order,  and  his  majesty's  profound  and  reverential 
bow  before  the  altar  as  he  retired,  were  novelties  and  curiosities 
to  me,  but  surprised  me  much  less  than  the  patience  and  perse- 
verance with  which  they  all  kneeled,  for  two  hours  together, 
upon  the  hard  marble  of  which  the  floor  of  the  chapel  was  made. 
The  distinction  of  the  blue  ribbon  was  ver)'-  dearly  purchased  at 
the  price  of  enduring  this  painful  operation  four  times  in  a  year. 
The  Count  de  Vergennes  confessed  to  me  that  he  was  almost 
dead  with  the  pain  of  it.  And  the  only  insinuation  I  ever  heard, 
that  the  king  was  in  any  degree  touched  by  the  philosophy  of 
the  age,  was,  that  he  never  discovered  so  much  impatience, 
under  any  of  the  occurrences  of  his  life,  as  in  going  through 
those  tedious  ceremonies  of  religion,  to  which  so  many  hours  of 
his  life  were  condemned  by  the  catholic  church. 

The  queen  was  attended  by  her  ladies  to  the  gallery  opposite 
to  the  altar,  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  seat,  and  there  left  alone 
by  the  other  ladies,  who  all  retired.  She  was  an  object  too 
sublime  and  beautiful  for  my  dull  pen  to  describe.  I  leave  this 
enterprise  to  Mr.  Burke.  But  in  his  description,  there  is  more 
of  the  orator  than  of  the  philosopher.  Her  dress  was  everything 
that  art  and  wealth  could  make  it.  One  of  the  maids  of  honor 
told  me  she  had  diamonds  upon  her  person  to  the  value  of 
eighteen  millions  of  livres;  and  I  always  thought  her  majesty 
much  beholden  to  her  dress.  Mr.  Burke  saw  her  probably  but 
once.  I  have  seen  her  fifty  times  perhaps,  and  in  all  the  varie- 
ties of  her  dresses.  She  had  a  fine  complexion,  indicating 
perfect  health,  and  was  a  handsome  woman  in  her  face  and 
figure.  But  I  have  seen  beauties  much  superior,  both  in  counte- 
nance and  form,  in  France,  England,  and  America. 

After  the  ceremonies  of  this  institution  are  over,  there  is  a 
collection  for  the  poor;  and  that  this  closing  scene  may  be  as 
elegant  as  any  of  the  former,  a  young  lady  of  some  of  the  first 
families  in  France  is  appointed  to  present  the  box  to  the  knights. 
Her  dress  must  be  as  rich  and  elegant,  in  proportion,  as  the 
Queen's,  and  her  hair,  motions,  and  curtsies  must  have  as  much 
dignity  and  grace  as  those  of  the  knights.  It  was  a  curious 
entertainment  to  observe  the  easy  air,  the  graceful  bow,  and  the 
conscious  dignity  of  the  knight,  in  presenting  his  contribution; 
and  the  corresponding  ease,  grace,  and  dignity  of  the  lady,  in 
receiving  it,  were  not  less  charming.      Every  muscle,  nerve,  an4 


1^2  JOHN  At)AMS 

fibre  of  both  seemed  perfectly  disciplined  to  perform  its  func- 
tions. The  elevation  of  the  arm,  the  bend  of  the  elbow,  and 
every  finger  in  the  hand  of  the  knight,  in  putting  his  louis  d'ors 
into  the  box  appeared  to  be  perfectly  studied,  because  it  was 
perfectly  natural.  How  much  devotion  there  was  in  all  this  I 
know  not,  but  it  was  a  consummate  school  to  teach  the  rising 
generation  the  perfection  of  the  French  air,  and  external  polite- 
ness and  good-breeding.  I  have  seen  nothing  to  be  compared 
to  it  in  any  other  country.     .     .     . 

■  At  nine  o'clock  we  went  and  saw  the  king,  queen,  and  royal 
family,  at  the  grand  convert.  Whether  M.  Frangois,  a  gentleman 
who  undertook  upon  this  occasion  to  conduct  us,  had  contrived  a 
plot  to  gratify  the  curiosity  of  the  spectators,  or  whether  the 
royal  family  had  a  fancy  to  see  the  raw  American  at  their 
leisure,  or  whether  they  were  willing  to  gratify  him  with  a  con- 
venient seat,  in  which  he  might  see  all  the  royal  family,  and  all 
the  splendors  of  the  place,  I  know  not;  but  the  scheme  could 
not  have  been  carried  into  execution,  certainly,  without  the 
orders  of  the  king.  I  was  selected,  and  summoned  indeed,  from 
all  my  company,  and  ordered  to  a  seat  close  beside  the  royal 
family.  The  seats  on  both  sides  of  the  hall,  arranged  like  the 
seats  in  a  theatre,  were  all  full  of  ladies  of  the  first  rank  and 
fashion  in  the  kingdom,  and  there  was  no  room  or  place  for  me 
but  in  the  midst  of  them.  It  was  not  easy  to  make  room  tor 
one  more  person.  However,  room  was  made,  and  I  was  situated 
between  two  ladies,  with  rows  and  ranks  of  ladies  above  and 
below  me,  and  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left,  and  ladies 
only.  My  dress  was  a  decent  French  dress,  becoming  the  station 
I  held,  but  not  to  be  compared  with  the  gold,  and  diamonds, 
and  embroidery,  about  me.  I  could  neither  speak  nor  under- 
stand the  language  in  a  manner  to  support  a  conversation,  but  I 
had  soon  the  satisfaction  to  find  it  was  a  silent  meeting,  and 
that  nobody  spoke  a  word  but  the  royal  family  to  each  other, 
and  they  said  very  little.  The  eyes  of  all  the  assembly  were 
turned  upon  me,  and  I  felt  sufficiently  humble  and  mortified,  for 
I  was  not  a  proper  object  for  the  criticisms  of  such  a  company. 
I  found  myself  gazed  at,  as  we  in  America  used  to  gaze  at  the 
sachems  who  came  to  make  speeches  to  us  in  Congress;  but  I 
thought  it  very  hard  if  I  could  not  command  as  much  power  of 
face  as  one  of  the  chiefs  of  the  Six  Nations,  and  therefore  deter- 
mined  that   I   would   assume   a   cheerful   countenance,    enjoy  the 


JOHN  ADAMS  ,^3 

scene  around  me,  and  observe  it  as  coolly  as  an  astronomer  con- 
templates the  stars.  Inscriptions  of  Fructus  Belli  were  seen  on 
the  ceiling  and  all  about  the  walls  of  the  room,  among  paint- 
ings of  the  trophies  of  war;  probably  done  by  the  order  of 
Louis  XIV.,  who  confessed  in  his  dying  hour  as  his  successor 
and  exemplar  Napoleon  will  probably  do,  that  he  had  been  too 
fond  of  war.  The  king  was  the  royal  carver  for  himself  and  all 
his  family.  His  majesty  ate  like  a  king,  and  made  a  royal 
supper  of  solid  beef,  and  other  things  in  proportion.  The  queen 
took  a  large  spoonful  of  soup,  and  displayed  her  fine  person  and 
graceful  manners,  in  alternately  looking  at  the  company  in  vari- 
ous parts  of  the  hall,  and  ordering  several  kinds  of  seasoning  to 
be  brought  to  her,  by  which  she  fitted  her  supper  to  her  taste.] 


THE  CHARACTER  OF   FRANKLIN 
From  Letter  to  the  Boston  Patriot,  May  15th,  1811 

FRANKLIN  had  a  great  genius,  original,  sagacious,  and  inventive, 
capable  of  discoveries  in  science  no  less  than  of  improve- 
ments in  the  fine  arts  and  the  mechanic  arts.  He  had  a 
vast  imagination,  equal  to  the  comprehension  of  the  greatest 
objects,  and  capable  of  a  cool  and  steady  comprehension  of  them. 
He  had  wit  at  will.  He  had  humor  that  when  he  pleased  was 
delicate  and  delightful.  He  had  a  satire  that  was  good-natured 
or  caustic,  Horace  or  Juvenal,  Swift  or  Rabelais,  at  his  pleasure. 
He  had  talents  for  irony,  allegory,  and  fable,  that  he  could  adapt 
with  great  skill  to  the  promotion  of  moral  and  political  truth. 
He  was  master  of  that  infantine  simplicity  which  the  French  call 
naivete,  which  never  fails  to  charm  in  Phaedrus  and  La  Fontaine, 
from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  Had  he  been  blessed  with  the 
same  advantages  of  scholastic  education  in  his  early  youth,  and 
pursued  a  course  of  studies  as  unembarrassed  with  occupations 
of  public  and  private  life  as  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  he  might  have 
emulated  the  first  philosopher.  Although  I  am  not  ignorant  that 
most  of  his  positions  and  hypotheses  have  been  controverted,  I 
cannot  but  think  he  has  added  much  to  the  mass  of  natural 
knowledge,  and  contributed  largely  to  the  progress  of  the  human 
mind,  both  by  his  own  writings  and  by  the  controversies  and 
experiments  he  has  excited  in  all  parts  of  Europe.  He  had  abil- 
ities for   investigating   statistical  questions,   and  in  some  parts  of 


134  JOHN   ADAMS 

his  life  has  written  pamphlets  and  essays  upon  public  topics  with 
great  ingenuity  and  success;  but  after  my  acquaintance  with  him, 
which  commenced  in  Congress  in  1775,  his  excellence  as  a  legis- 
lator, a  politician,  or  a  negotiator  most  certainly  never  appeared. 
No  sentiment  more  weak  and  superficial  was  ever  avowed  by  the 
most  absurd  philosopher  than  some  of  his,  particularly  one  that 
he  procured  to  be  inserted  in  the  first  constitution  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, and  for  which  he  had  such  a  fondness  as  to  insert  it  in 
his  will.  I  call  it  weak,  for  so  it  must  have  been,  or  hypocritical; 
unless  he  meant  by  one  satiric  touch  to  ridicule  his  own  republic, 
or  throw  it  into  everlasting  contempt. 

I  must  acknowledge,  after  all,  that  nothing  in  life  has  morti- 
fied or  grieved  me  more  than  the  necessity  which  compelled  me 
to  oppose  him  so  often  as  I  have.  He  was  a  man  with  whom  I 
always  wished  to  live  in  friendship,  and  for  that  purpose  omitted 
no  demonstration  of  respect,  esteem,  and  veneration  in  my  power, 
until  I  had  unequivocal  proofs  of  his  hatred,  for  no  other  reason 
under  the  sun  but  because  I  gave  my  judgment  in  opposition 
to  his  in  many  points  which  materially  affected  the  interests  of 
our  country,  and  in  many  more  which  essentially  concerned  our 
happiness,  safety,  and  well-being.  I  could  not  and  would  not 
sacrifice  the  clearest  dictates  of  my  understanding  and  the  purest 
principles  of  morals  and  policy  in  compliance  to  Dr.  Franklin. 


•  »«^»^B>co«s>g><^ot^»««^>lio^«B^»<<^»oe<^t»^»«o^»cO'i^««£=>ii^»IOf>ai'<s»(>«^9it<^*<<^t 


135 

JOHN   QUINCY  ADAMS 

(1 767-1 848) 

IHE  chief  distinction  in  character  between  John  Adams  and 
his  son  is  the  strangest  one  imaginable,  when  one  remem- 
bers that  to  the  fiery,  combative,  bristling  Adams  blood  was 
added  an  equal  strain  from  the  gay,  genial,  affectionate  Abigail  Smith. 
The  son,  though  of  deep  inner  affections,  and  even  hungering  for  good- 
'will  if  it  would  come  without  his  help,  was  on  the  surface  incom- 
parably colder,  harsher,  and  thornier  than  his  father,  with  all  the 
socially  repellent  traits  of  the  race  and  none  of  the  softer  ones.  The 
father  could  never  control  his  tongue  or  his  temper,  and  not  always 
his  head;  the  son  never  lost  the  bridle  of  either,  and  much  of  his  ter- 
rible power  in  debate  came  from  his  ability  to  make  others  lose 
theirs  while  perfectly  keeping  his  own.  The  father  had  plenty  of 
warm  friends  and  allies, —  at  the  worst  he  worked  with  half  a  party: 
the  son  in  the  most  superb  part  of  his  career  had  no  friends,  no 
allies,  no  party  except  the  group  of  constituents  who  kept  him  in 
Congress.  The  father's  self-confidence  deepened  in  the  son  to  a  soli- 
tary and  even  contemptuous  gladiatorship  against  the  entire  govern- 
ment of  the  country,  for  long  years  of  hate  and  peril.  The  father's 
irritable  though  generous  vanity  changed  in  the  son  to  an  icy 
contempt  or  white-hot  scorn  of  nearly  all  around  him.  The  father's 
spasms  of  acrimonious  judgment  steadied  in  the  son  to  a  constant 
rancor  always  finding  new  objects.  But  only  John  Quincy  Adams 
could  have  done  the  work  awaiting  John  Quincy  Adams,  and  each  of 
his  unamiable  qualities  strengthened  his  fibre  to  do  it.  And  if  a 
man  is  to  be  judged  by  his  fruits,  Mr.  Morse  is  justified  in  saying 
that  he  was  ^*  not  only  pre-eminent  in  ability  and  acquirements,  but 
even  more  to  be  honored  for  profound,  immutable  honesty  of  pur- 
pose, and  broad,  noble  humanity  of  aims.'* 

It  might  almost  be  said  that  the  sixth  President  of  the  United 
States  was  cradled  in  statesmanship.  Born  July  nth,  1767,  he  was  a 
little  lad  of  ten  when  he  accompanied  his  father  on  the  French  miss- 
ion. Eighteen  months  elapsed  before  he  returned,  and  three  months 
later  he  was  again  upon  the  water,  bound  once  more  for  the  French 
capital.  There  were  school  days  in  Paris,  and  other  school  days  in 
Amsterdam  and  in  Leyden;  but  the  boy  was  only  fourteen,  —  the  ma- 
ture old  child!  —  when  he  went  to  St.  Petersburg  as  private  secretary 
and  interpreter  to  Francis  Dana,  just  appointed  minister  plenipoten' 
tiary  to  the  court  of  the  Empress  Catherine.  Such  was  his  appren- 
ticeship to  a  public  career  which  began  in  earnest  in  1794,  and  lasted, 


136  JOHN   QUINCY  ADAMS 

with  slight  interruptions,  for  fifty-four  years.  Minister  to  the  United 
Netherlands,  to  Russia,  to  Prussia,  and  to  England;  commissioner  to 
frame  the  Treaty  of  Ghent  vhich  ended  the  war  of  181 2;  State  Sen- 
ator, United  States  Senator;  Secretary  of  State,  a  position  in,  which 
he  made  the  treaty  with  Spain  which  conceded  Florida,  anj^  eiiun- 
ciated  the  Monroe  Doctrine  before  Monroe  and  far  more  thoroughly 
than  he;  President,  and  then  for  many  years  Member  of  the  National 
House  of  Representatives.  —  it  is  strange  to  find  this  man  writing  in 
his  later  years,  "  My  whole  life  has  been  a  succession  of  disappoint- 
ments. I  can  scarcely  recollect  a  single  instance  of  success  to  any- 
thing that  I  ever  undertook." 

It  is  true,  however,  that  his  successes  and  even  his  glories  always 
had  some  bitter  ingredient  to  spoil  their  flavor.  As  United  States 
Senator  he  was  practically  "boycotted,'*  for  years,  even  by  his  own 
party  members,  because  he  was  an  Adams.  In  1807  he  definitely 
broke  with  the  Federalist  party  —  for  what  he  regarded  as  its  slavish 
crouching  under  English  outrages,  conduct  which  had  been  for  years 
estranging  him  —  by  supporting  Jefferson's  Embargo,  as  better  than 
no  show  of  resistance  at  all;  and  was  for  a  generation  denounced  by 
the  New  England  Federalists  as  a  renegade  for  the  sake  of  office  and 
a  traitor  to  New  England.  The  Massachusetts  Legislature  practically 
censured  him  in  1808,  and  he  resigned. 

His  winning  of  the  Presidency  brought  pain  instead  of  pleasure : 
he  valued  it  only  as  a  token  of  national  confidence,  got  it  only  as 
a  minority  candidate  in  a  divided  party,  and  was  denounced  by  the 
Jacksonians  as  a  corrupt  political  bargainer.  And  his  later  Congress- 
ional career,  though  his  chief  title  to  glory,  was  one  long  martyrdom 
(even  though  its  worst  pains  were  self-inflicted),  and  he  never  knew 
the  immense  victory  he  had  actually  won.  The  <<old  man  eloquent,'* 
after  ceasing  to  be  President,  was  elected  in  1830  by  his  home 
district  a  Representative  in  Congress,  and  regularly  re-elected  till  his 
death.  For  a  long  time  he  bore  the  anti-slavery  standard  almost 
alone  in  the  halls  of  Congress,  a  unique  and  picturesque  figure,  rous- 
ing every  demon  of  hatred  in  his  fellow-members,  in  constant  and 
envenomed  battle  with  them,  and  more  than  a  match  for  them  all. 
He  fought  single-handed  for  the  right  of  petition  as  an  indefeasible 
right,  not  hesitating  to  submit  a  petition  from  citizens  of  Virginia 
praying  for  his  own  expulsion  from  Congress  as  a  nuisance.  In  1836 
he  presented  a  petition  from  one  hundred  and  fifty-eight  ladies, 
citizens  of  Massachusetts ,  "  for,  I  said,  I  had  not  yet  brought  myself 
to  doubt  whether  females  were  citizens."  After  eight  years  of  per- 
sistent struggle  against  the  "Atherton  gag  law,"  which  practically 
denied  the  right  of  petition  in  matters  relating  to  slavery,  he  carried 
a  vote  rescinding  it,  and  nothing  of  the  kind  was  again  enacted.     He 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS  1 37 

had   a    fatal    stroke    of   paralysis   on    the    floor  of   Congress  February 
2ist,   1848,  and  died  two  days  later. 

As  a  writer  he  was  perspicuous,  vigorous,  and  straightforward. 
He  had  entered  Harvard  in  the  middle  of  the  college  course,  and 
been  graduated  with  honors.  He  had  then  studied  and  practiced 
law.  He  was  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  Oratory  at  Harvard  from 
1806  to  1809,  and  was  well  drilled  in  the  use  of  language,  but  was 
too  downright  in  his  temper  and  purposes  to  spend  much  labor  upon 
artistic  effects.  He  kept  an  elaborate  diary  during  the  greater  part 
of  his  life, —  since  published  in  twelve  volumes  of  "Memoirs'*  by 
his  son  Charles  Francis  Adams;  a  vast  storehouse  of  material  relat- 
ing to  the  political  history  of  the  country,  but,  as  published,  largely 
restricted  to  public  affairs.  He  delivered  orations  on  Lafayette,  on 
Madison,  on  Monroe,  on  Independence,  and  on  the  Constitution;  pub- 
lished essays  on  the  Masonic  Institution  and  various  other  matters; 
a  report  on  weights  and  measures,  of  enormous  labor  and  permanent 
value ;  Lectures  on  Rhetoric  and  Oratory ;  a  tale  in  verse  on  the  Con- 
quest of  Ireland,  with  the  title  *  Dermot  MacMorrogh ' ;  an  account  of 
Travels  in  Silesia;  and  a  volume  of  < Poems  of  Religion  and  Society.* 
He  had  some  facility  in  rhyme,  but  his  judgment  was  not  at  fault  in 
informing  him  that  he  was  not  a  poet.  Mr.  Morse  says  that  <<No 
man  can  have  been  more  utterly  void  of  a  sense  of  humor  ot  an 
appreciation  of  wit'*;  and  yet  he  very  fairly  anticipated  Holmes  in 
his  poem  on  <The  Wants  of  Man,'  and  hits  rather  neatly  a  familiar 
foible  in  the  verse   with   which   he   begins  < Dermot  MacMorrogh':  — 

«"ris   strange   how  often   readers  will  indulge 
Their  wits  a  mystic  meaning  to  discover; 

Secrets  ne'er  dreamt  of  by  the  bard  divulge, 

And  where  he  shoots  a  duck,  \vill  find  a  plover; 

Satiric  shafts  from  every  line  promulge, 

Detect  a  tyrant  where  he  draws  a  lover: 

Nay,  so  intent  his  hidden  thoughts  to  see. 

Cry,  if  he  paint  a  scoundrel — <That  means  me.>» 


Selections  from  Letters  and  Memoirs  used  by  permission  of 
J.  B.  Lippincott  Company 

LETTER  TO  HIS   FATHER 
(At  the  Age  of  Ten) 

DEAR  Sir, —  I  love  to  receive  letters  very  well;  much  better  than 
I  love  to  write  them.     I  make  but  a  poor  figure  at  compo- 
sition, my  head  is  too  fickle,  my  thoughts  are  running  after 
birds  eggs  play  and  trifles,  till  I  get  vexed  with  myself.     Mamma 


138  JOHN   QUINCY  ADAMS 

has  a  troublesome  task  to  keep  me  steady,  and  I  own  I  am 
ashamed  of  myself.  I  have  but  just  entered  the  third  volume  of 
Smollett,  tho'  I  had  designed  to  have  got  it  half  through  by  this 
time.  I  have  determined  this  week  to  be  more  diligent,  as  Mr. 
Thaxter  will  be  absent  at  Court,  and  I  cannot  pursue  my  other 
studies.  I  have  Set  myself  a  Stent  and  determine  to  read  the  3rd 
volume  Half  out.  If  I  can  but  keep  my  resolution,  I  will  write 
again  at  the  end  of  the  week  and  give  a  better  account  of  myself. 
I  wish,  Sir,  you  would  give  me  some  instructions,  with  regard  to 
my  time,  and  advise  me  how  to  proportion  my  Studies  and  my 
Play,  in  writing,  and  I  will  keep  them  by  me,  and  endeavor  to 
follow  them.  I  am,  dear  Sir,  with  a  present  determination  of 
growing  better,  yours. 

P.  S, —  Sir,  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  favor  me  with  a  Blank 
Book,  I  will  transcribe  the  most  remarkable  occurances  I  meet 
with  in  my  reading,  which  will  serve  to  fix  them  upon  my  mind. 


FROM  THE  MEMOIRS 

(At  the  Age  of  Eighteen) 

APRIL  26TH,  1785. —  A  letter  from  Mr.  Gerry  of  Feb.  25th  Says 
that  Mr.  Adams  is  appointed  Minister  to  the  Court  of 
London. 
I  believe  he  will  promote  the  interests  of  the  United  States, 
as  much  as  any  man,  but  I  fear  his  duty  will  induce  him  to  make 
exertions  which  may  be  detrimental  to  his  health.  I  wish  how- 
ever it  may  be  otherwise.  Were  I  now  to  go  with  him,  probably 
my  immediate  satisfaction  might  be  greater  than  it  will  be  in 
returning  to  America.  After  having  been  traveling  for  these 
seven  years  almost  all  over  Europe,  and  having  been  in  the 
World,  and  among  company,  for  three;  to  return  to  spend  one 
or  two  years  in  the  pale  of  a  College,  subjected  to  all  the  rules 
which  I  have  so  long  been  freed  from;  then  to  plunge  into  the 
dry  and  tedious  study  of  the  Law  for  three  years;  and  afterwards 
not  expect  (however  good  an  opinion  I  may  have  of  myself)  to 
bring  myself  into  notice  under  three  or  four  years  more ;  if  ever ! 
It  is  really  a  prospect  somewhat  discouraging  for  a  youth  of  my 
ambition  (for  I  have  ambition,  though  I  hope  its  object  is  laud- 
able).    But  still 

<*  Oh !  how  wretched 

Is  that  poor  Man,  that  hangs  on  Princes'  favors** 


JOHN   QUINCY  ADAMS  -  I-q 

or  on  those  of  anybody  else.  I  am  determined  that  so  long  as  I 
shall  be  able  to  get  my  own  living  in  an  honorable  manner,  I 
will  depend  upon  no  one.  My  Father  has  been  so  much  taken  up 
all  his  lifetime  with  the  interests  of  the  public,  that  his  own  for- 
tune has  suffered  by  it;  so  that  his  children  will  have  to  provide 
for  themselves,  which  I  shall  never  be  able  to  do,  if  I  loiter  away 
my  precious  time  in  Europe  and  shun  going  home  until  I  am 
forced  to  it.  With  an  ordinary  share  of  Common  sense  which  I 
hope  I  enjoy,  at  least  in  America  I  can  live  independent  and  free; 
and  rather  than  live  otherwise  I  would  wish  to  die  before  the 
time  when  I  shall  be  left  at  my  own  discretion.  I  have  before 
me  a  striking  example  of  the  distressing  and  humiliating  situation 
a  person  is  reduced  to  by  adopting  a  different  line  of  conduct, 
and  I  am  determined  not  to  fall  into  the  same  error. 


FROM   THE   MEMOIRS 

JANUARY  14TH,  1 83 1. — I  received  a  letter  from  John  C.  Calhoun, 
now  Vice-President  of  the  United  States,  relating  to  his  pres- 
ent controversy  with  President  Jackson  and  William  H.  Craw- 
ford. He  questions  me  concerning  the  letter  of  General  Jackson 
to  Mr.  Monroe  which  Crawford  alleges  to  have  been  produced  at 
the  Cabinet  meetings  on  the  Seminole  War,  and  asks  for  copies, 
if  I  think  proper  to  give  them,  of  Crawford's  letter  to  me  which. 
I  received  last  summer,  and  of  my  answer.  I  answered  Mr.  Cal- 
houn's letter  immediately,  rigorously  confining  myself  to  the  direct 
object  of  his  inquiries.  This  is  a  new  bursting  out  of  the  old  and 
rancorous  feud  between  Crawford  and  Calhoun,  both  parties  to 
which,  after  suspending  their  animosities  and  combining  together 
to  effect  my  riiin,  are  appealing  to  me  for  testimony  to  sustain 
themselves  each  against  the  other.  This  is  one  of  the  occasions 
upon  which  I  shall  eminently  need  the  direction  of  a  higher  power 
to  guide  me  in  every  step  of  my  conduct.  I  see  my  duty  to  dis- 
card all  consideration  of  their  treatment  of  me;  to  adhere,  in 
everything  that  I  shall  say  or  write,  to  the  truth;  to  assert  noth- 
ing positively  of  which  I  am  not  absolutely  certain;  to  deny 
nothing  upon  which  there  remains  a  scruple  of  doubt  upon  my 
memory;  to  conceal  nothing  which  it  may  be  lawful  to  divulge, 
and  which  may  promote  truth  and  justice  between  the  parties. 
With  these  principles,  I  see  further  the  necessity  for  caution  and 
prudence  in   the   course   I   shall   take.      The  bitter  enmity  of  all 


,^0  ■  JOHN   QUINCY   ADAMS  "^ 

three  of  the  parties  —  Jackson,  Calhoun,  and  Crawford  —  against 
me,  an  enmity  the  more  virulent  because  kindled  by  their  own 
ingratitude  and  injustice  to  me-,  the  interest  which  every  one  of 
them,  and  all  their  partisans,  have  in  keeping  up  that  load 
of  obloquy  and  public  odium  which  their  foul  calumnies  have 
brought  down  upon  me;  and  the  disfavor  in  which  I  stand  before 
a  majority  of  the  people,  excited  against  me  by  their  artifices;  — 
their  demerits  to  me  are  proportioned  to  the  obligations  to  me  — 
Jackson's  the  greatest,  Crawford's  the  next,  Calhoun's  the  least  of 
positive  obligation,  but  darkened  by  his  double-faced  setting  him- 
self up  as  a  candidate  for  the  Presidency  against  me  in  1821,  his 
prevarications  between  Jackson  and  me  in  1824,  and  his  icy- 
hearted  dereliction  of  all  the  decencies  of  social  intercourse  with 
me,  solely  from  the  terror  of  Jackson,  since  the  4th  of  March, 
1829.  I  walk  between  burning  ploughshares;  let  me  be  mindful 
where  I  place  my  foot. 

FROM   THE  MEMOIRS 

JUNE  7TH,  1833. — The  first  seedling  apple-tree  that  I  had  observed 
on  my  return  here  just  out  of  the  ground  was  on  the  2 2d 
of  April.  It  had  grown  slowly  but  constantly  since,  and  had 
put  out  five  or  six  leaves.  Last  evening,  after  my  return  from 
.Boston,  I  saw  it  perfectly  sound.  This  morning  I  found  it  broken 
off,  leaving  one  lobe  of  the  seed-leaves,  and  one  leaf  over  it.  This 
may  have  been  the  work  of  a  bug,  or  perhaps  of  a  caterpillar.  It 
would  not  be  imaginable  to  any  person  free  from  hobby-horse  or 
fanciful  attachments,  how  much  mortification  such  an  incident  oc- 
casions. St.  Evremond,  after  removing  into  the  country,  returned 
to  a  city  life  because  he  found  himself  in  despair  for  the  loss  of 
a  pigeon.  His  conclusion  was,  that  rural  life  induced  exorbitant 
attachment  to  insignificant  objects.  My  experience  is  conformable 
to  this.  :My  natural  propensity  was  to  raise  trees,  friiit  and  forest, 
from  the  seed.  I  had  it  in  early  youth,  but  the  course  of  my  life 
deprived  me  of  the  means  of  pursuing  the  bent  of  my  inclina- 
tion. One  shellbark-walnut-tree  in  my  garden,  the  root  of  which 
I  planted  8th  October,  1804,  and  one  Mazzard  cherry-tree  in  the 
grounds  north  of  the  house,  the  stone  of  which  I  planted  about 
the  same  time,  are  the  only  remains  of  my  experiments  of  so 
ancient  a  date.  Had  my  life  been  spent  in  the  country,  and  my 
experiments  commenced  while    I   was  at  College,    I    should   now 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS  1^1 

have  a  large  fruit  garden,  flourishing  orchards  of  native  fruit,  and 
very  vahiable  forests ;  instead  of  which  I  have  a  nursery  of  about 
half  an  acre  of  ground,  half  full  of  seedlings,  from  five  years  to 
five  days  old,  bearing  for  the  first  time  perhaps  twenty  peaches, 
and  a  few  blossoms  of  apricots  and  cherries;  and  hundreds  of 
seedlings  of  the  present  year  perishing  from  day  to  day  before  my 
eyes. 

FROM   THE  MEMOIRS 

SEPTEMBER  ^TH,  1833. — Cold  and  cloudy  day,  clearing  off  toward 
evening.  In  the  multitudinous  whimseys  of  a  disabled  mind 
and  body,  the  thick-coming  fancies  often  come  to  me  that 
the  events  which  affect  my  life  and  adventures  are  specially 
shaped  to  disappoint  my  purposes.  My  whole  life  has  been  a 
succession  of  disappointments.  I  can  scarcely  recollect  a  single 
instance  of  success  to  anything  that  I  ever  undertook.  Yet,  with 
fervent  gratitude  to  God,  I  confess  that  my  life  has  been  equally 
marked  by  great  and  signal  successes  which  I  neither  aimed  at 
nor  anticipated.  Fortune,  by  which  I  understand  Providence,  has 
showered  blessings  upon  me  profusely.  But  they  have  been 
blessings  unforeseen  and  unsought.  **  Non  nobis  Domine,  non 
nobis,  sed  nomini  tuo  da  gloriam !  '*  I  ought  to  have  been  taught 
by  it  three  lessons: — i.  Of  implicit  reliance  upon  Providence. 
2.  Of  humility  and  humiliation;  the 'thorough  conviction  of  my 
own  impotence  to  accomplish  anything.  3.  Of  resignation;  and 
not  to  set  my  heart  upon  anything  which  can  be  taken  from  me 
or  denied. 

THE  MISSION   OF    AMERICA 
From  his  Fourth  of  July  Oration  at  Washington,  1821 

AND  now,  friends  and  coimtrymen,  if  the  wise  and  learned 
philosophers  of  the  older  world,  the  first  observers  of  nuta- 
tion and  aberration,  the  discoverers  of  maddening  ether  and 
invisible  planets,  the  inventors  of  Congreve  rockets  and  shrapnel 
shells,  should  find  their  hearts  disposed  to  inquire,  What  has 
America  done  for  mankind  ?  let  our  answer  be  this :  —  America, 
with  the  same  voice  which  spoke  herself  into  existence  as  a 
nation,  proclaimed  to  mankind  the  inextinguishable  rights  of 
human  nature,  and  the  only  lawful  foundations  of  government. 
America,  in  the  assembly  of  nations,   since  her  admission  among 


142  JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS 

them,  has  invariably,  though  often  fruitlessly,  held  forth  to  them 
the  hand  of  honest  friendship,  of  equal  freedom,  of  generous 
reciprocity.  She  has  uniformly  spoken  among  them,  though  often 
to  heedless  and  often  to  disdainful  ears,  the  language  of  equal 
liberty,  equal  justice,  and  equal  rights.  She  has,  in  the  lapse  of 
nearly  half  a  century,  without  a  single  exception,  respected  the 
independence  of  other  nations,  while  asserting  and  maintaining 
her  own.  She  has  abstained  from  interference  in  the  concerns  of 
others,  even  when  the  conflict  has  been  for  principles  to  which 
she  clings,  as  to  the  last  vital  drop  that  visits  the  heart.  She 
has  seen  that  probably  for  centuries  to  come,  all  the  contests  of 
that  Aceldama,  the  European  World,  will  be  contests  between 
inveterate  power  and  emerging  right.  Wherever  the  standard  of 
freedom  and  independence  has  been  or  shall  be  unfurled,  there 
will  her  heart,  her  benedictions,  and  her  prayers  be.  But  she 
goes  not  abroad  in  search  of  monsters  to  destroy.  She  is  the 
well-wisher  to  the  freedom  and  independence  of  all.  '  She  is  the 
champion  and  vindicator  only  of  her  own.  She  will  recommend 
the  general  cause,  by  the  countenance  of  her  voice,  and  the 
benignant  sympathy  of  her  example.  She  well  knows  that  by 
once  enlisting  under  other  banners  than  her  own,  were  they  even 
the  banners  of  foreign  independence,  she  would  involve  herself, 
beyond  the  power  of  extrication,  in  all  the  wars  of  interest  and 
intrigue,  of  individual  avarice,  envy,  and  ambition,  which  assume 
the  colors  and  usurp  the  standard  of  freedom.  The  fundamental 
maxims  of  her  policy  would  insensibly  change  from  liberty  to 
force.  The  frontlet  upon  her  brows  would  no  longer  beam  with 
the  ineffable  splendor  of  freedom  and  independence;  but  in  its 
stead  would  soon  be  substituted  an  imperial  diadem,  flashing  in 
false  and  tarnished  lustre  the  murky  radiance  of  dominion  and 
power.  She  might  become  the  dictatress  of  the  world;  she  would 
no  longer  be  the  ruler  of  her  own  spirit. 


THE   RIGHT  OF   PETITION 

Quoted  in  Memoir  by  Josiah  Quincy 

SIR,  it  is  .     .     .    well  known  that,  from  the  time  I  entered  this 
house,  down  to  the  present  day,  I  have  felt  it  a  sacred  duty 
to  present  any  petition,  couched  in  respectful  language,  from 
any  citizen  of  the  United  States,  be  its  object  what  it  may, — be 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS  l^j 

the  prayer  of  it  that  in  which  I  could  concur,  or  that  to  which  I 
was  utterly  opposed.  I  adhere  to  the  right  of  petition;  and  let 
me  say  here  that,  let  the  petition  be,  as  the  gentleman  from 
Virginia  has  stated,  from  free  negroes,  prostitutes,  as  he  supposes, 
—  for  he  says  there  is  one  put  on  this  paper,  and  he  infers  that 
the  rest  are  of  the  same  description,  —  that  has  not  altered  my 
opinion  at  all.  Where  is  your  law  that  says  that  the  mean,  the 
low,  and  the  degraded,  shall  be  deprived  of  the  right  of  petition, 
if  their  moral  character  is  not  good  ?  Where,  in  the  land  of  free- 
men, was  the  right  of  petition  ever  placed  on  the  exclusive  basis 
of  morality  and  virtue?  Petition  is  supplication  —  it  is  entreaty  — 
it  is  prayer  !  And  where  is  the  degree  of  vice  or  immorality 
which  shall  deprive  the  citizen  of  the  right  to  supplicate  for  a 
boon,  or  to  pray  for  mercy  ?  Where  is  such  a  law  to  be  found  ? 
It  does  not  belong  to  the  most  abject  despotism.  There  is  no 
absolute  monarch  on  earth  who  is  not  compelled,  by  the  constitu- 
tion of  his  countr}%  to  receive  the  petitions  of  his  people,  whoso- 
ever they  may  be.  The  Sultan  of  Constantinople  cannot  walk 
the  streets  and  refuse  to  receive  petitions  from  the  meanest  and 
vilest  in  the  land.  This  is  the  law  even  of  despotism;  and  what 
does  your  law  say  ?  Does  it  say,  that,  before  presenting  a  peti- 
tion, you  shall  look  into  it  and  see  whether  it  comes  from  the 
virtuous,  and  the  great,  and  the  mighty  ?  No,  sir ;  it  says  no  such 
thing.  The  right  of  petition  belongs  to  all;  and  so  far  from 
refusing  to  present  a  petition  because  it  might  come  from  those 
low  in  the  estimation  of  the  world,  it  would  be  an  additional 
incentive,  if  such  an  incentive  were  wanting. 

NULLIFICATION 
From  his  Fourth  of  July  Oration  at  Quincy,  1831 

NULLIFICATION  is  the  provocation  to  that  brutal  and  foul  contest 
of  force,  which  has  hitherto  baffled  all  the  efforts  of  the 
European  and  Southern  American  nations,  to  introduce 
among  them  constitutional  governments  of  liberty  and  order.  It 
strips  us  of  that  peciiliar  and  unimitated  characteristic  of  all  our 
legislation  —  free  debate;  it  makes  the  bayonet  the  arbiter  of  law; 
it  has  no  argument  but  the  thunderbolt.  It  were  senseless  to 
imagine  that  twenty-three  States  of  the  Union  would  suffer  their 
laws  to  be  trampled  upon  by  the  despotic  mandate  of  one.  The 
act  of  nullification  would  itself  be  null  and  void.     Force  must  be 


,^  ,  JOHN  gUINCY  ADAMS 

called  in  to  execute  the  law  of  the  Union.     Force  must  be  applied 
by  the  nullifying  State  to  resist  its  execution  — 

«Ate,  hot  from  Hell, 
Cries  Havoc!  and  lets  slip  the  dogs  of  war.*^ 

The  blood  of  brethren  is  shed  by  each  other.  The  citizen  of 
the  nullifying  State  is  a  traitor  to  his  country,  by  obedience  to 
the  law  of  his  State;  a  traitor  to  his  State,  by  obedience  to  the  law 
of  his  country.  The  scaffold  and  the  battle-field  stream  alter- 
nately with  the  blood  of  their  victims.  Let  this  agent  but  once 
intrude  upon  your  deliberations,  and  Freedom  will  take  her  flight 
for  heaven.  The  Declaration  of  Independence  will  become  a  phi- 
losophical dream,  and  uncontrolled,  despotic  sovereignties  will 
trample  with  impunity,  through  a  long  career  of  after  ages,  at 
interminable  or  exterminating  war  with  one  another,  upon  the 
indefeasible  and  unalienable  rights  of  man. 

The  event  of  a  conflict  of  arms,  between  the  Union  and  one 
of  its  members,  whether  terminating  in  victory  or  defeat,  would 
be  but  an  alternative  of  calamity  to  all.  In  the  holy  records  of 
antiquity,  we  have  two  examples  of  a  confederation  ruptured  by 
the  severance  of  its  members;  one  of  which  resulted,  after  three 
desperate  battles,  in  the  extermination  of  the  seceding  tribe.  And 
the  victorious  people,  instead  of  exulting  in  shouts  of  triumph, 
"  came  to  the  House  of  God,  and  abode  there  till  even  before 
God;  and  lifted  up  their  voices,  and  wept  sore,  and  said,— O 
Lord  God  of  Israel,  why  is  this  come  to  pass  in  Israel,  that  there 
should  be  to-day  one  tribe  lacking  in  Israel  ?  '^  The  other  was  a 
successful  example  of  resistance  against  tyrannical  taxation,  and 
severed  forever  the  confederacy,  the  fragments  forming  separate 
kingdoms;  and  from  that  day,  their  history  presents  an  unbroken 
series  of  disastrous  alliances  and  exterminating  wars  —  of  assas- 
sinations, conspiracies,  revolts,  and  rebellions,  until  both  parts  of 
the  confederacy  sunk  in  tributary  servitude  to  the  nations  around 
them;  till  the  countrymen  of  David  and  Solomon  hung  their 
harps  upon  the  willows  of  Babylon,  and  were  totally  lost  among 
the  multitudes  of  the  Chaldean  and  Assyrian  monarchies,  "  the 
most  despised  portion  of  their  slaves." 

In  these  mournful  memorials  of  their  fate,  we  may  behold 
the  sure,  too  sure  prognostication  of  our  own,  from  the  hour 
when  force  shall  be  substituted  for  deliberation  in  the  settlement 
9f  our  Constitutional  questions.     This  is  the  deplorable  alternative 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS  I45 

—  the  extirpation  of  the  seceding  member,  or  the  never-ceasing 
struggle  of  two  rival  confederacies,  ultimately  bending  the  neck  of 
both  under  the  yoke  of  foreign  domination,  or  the  despotic  sov- 
ereignty of  a  conqueror  at  home.  May  Heaven  avert  the  omen  ' 
The  destinies  of  not  only  our  posterity,  but  of  the  human  race, 
are  at  stake. 

Let  no  such  melancholy  forebodings  intrude  upon  the  festivi- 
ities  of  this  anniversary.  Serene  skies  and  balmy  breezes  are  not 
congenial  to  the  climate  of  freedom.  Progressive  improvement 
in  the  condition  of  man  is  apparently  the  purpose  of  a  superin- 
tending Providence.  That  purpose  will  not  be  disappointed  In 
no  delusion  of  nationa:l  vanity,  but  with  a  feeling  of  profound 
gratitude  to  the  God  of  our  Fathers,  let  us  indulge  the  cheering 
hope  and  belief,  that  our  country  and  her  people  have  been 
selected  as  instruments  for  preparing  and  maturing  much  of  the 
good  yet  in  reserve  for  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  the  human 
race.  Much  good  has  already  been  efEected  by  the  solemn  pro- 
clamation of  our  principles,  much  more  by  the  illustration  of  our 
example.  The  tempest  which  threatens  desolation,  may  be  des- 
tined only  to  purify  the  atmosphere.  It  is  not  in  tranquil  ease 
and  enjoyment  that  the  active  energies  of  mankind  are  displayed. 
Toils  and  dangers  are  the  trials  of  the  soul.  Doomed  to  the 
first  by  his  sentence  at  the  fall,  man,  by  his  submission,  converts 
them  into  pleasures.  The  last  are  since  the  fall  the  condition  of 
his  existence.  To  see  them  in  advance,  to  guard  against  them 
by  all  the  suggestions  of  prudence,  to  meet  them  with  the  com- 
posure of  unyielding  resistance,  and  to  abide  with  firm  resigna- 
tion the  final  dispensation  of  Him  who  rules  the  ball,  —  these  are 
the  dictates  of  philosophy  —  these  are  the  precepts  of  religion  — 
these  are  the  principles  and  consolations  of  patriotism;  these  re- 
main when  all  is  lost  —  and  of  these  is  composed  the  spirit  of 
independence  —  the  spirit  embodied  in  that  beautiful  personifica- 
tion of  the  poet,  which  may  each  of  you,  my  countrymen,  to  the 
last  hour  of  his  life,  apply  to  himself:  — 

"Thy  spirit,  Independence,  let  me  share. 
Lord  of  the  lion  heart  and  eagle  eye! 
Thy  steps  I  follow,  with   my   bosom  bare, 

Nor  heed  the  storm  that  howls  along  the  sky.* 

In  the  course  of  nature,  the  voice  which  now  addresses  you 
must  soon  cease  to  be  heard   upon   earth.     Life   and   all  which  it 


146  SARAH  FLOWER  ADAMS 

inherits,  lose  of  their  value  as  it  draws  toward  its  close.  But  for 
most  of  you,  my  friends  and  neighbors,  long  and  many  years  of 
futurity  are  yet  in  store.  May  they  be  years  of  freedom  —  years 
of  prosperity  —  years  of  happiness,  ripening  for  immortality!  But, 
were  the  breath  which  now  gives  utterance  to  my  feelings,  the 
last  vital  air  I  should  draw,  my  expiring  words  to  you  and  your 
children  should  be.  Independence  and  Union  forever! 


SARAH   FLOWER   ADAMS 

(1805— 1848) 

Ihis  English  poet,  whose  hymn,  <  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,*  is 
known  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken,  was  born 
at  Great  Harlow,  Essex,  England,  in  1805.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  Benjamin  Flower,  who  in  1799  was  prosecuted  for  plain 
speaking  in  his  paper,  the  Cambridge  Intelligencer.  From  the  out- 
come of  his  trial  is  to  be  dated  the  liberty  of  political  discussion 
in  England.  Her  mother  was  Eliza  Gould,  who  first  met  her  future 
husband  in  jail,  whither  she  had  gone  on  a  visit  to  assure  him  of  her 
sympathy.  She  also  had  suffered  for  liberal  opinions.  From  their 
parents  two  daughters  inherited  a  distinguished  nobility  and  purity  of 
character.  Eliza  excelled  in  the  composition  of  music  for  congrega- 
tional worship,  and  arranged  a  musical  service  for  the  Unitarian 
South  Place  Chapel,  London.  Sarah  contributed  first  to  the  Monthly 
Repository,  conducted  by  W.  J.  Fox,  her  Unitarian  pastor,  in  whose 
family  she  lived  after  her  father's  death.  In  1834  she  married  William 
Bridges  Adams.  Her  delicate  health  gave  way  under  the  shock  of 
her  sister's  death  in  1846,  and  she  died  of  decline  in  1848. 

Her  poetic  genius  found  expression  both  in  the  drama  and  in 
hymns.  Her  play,  <  Vivia  Perpetua*  (1841),  tells  of  the  author's  rapt 
aspiration  after  an  ideal,  symbolized  in  a  pagan's  conversion  to  Christ- 
ianity. She  published  also  ^  The  Royal  Progress,*  a  ballad  (1845),  on 
the  giving  up  of  the  feudal  privileges  of  the  Isle  of  Wight  to  Edward 
I. ;  and  poems  upon  the  humanitarian  interests  which  the  Anti-Corn- 
Law  League  endeavored  to  further.  Her  hymns  are  the  happiest 
expressions  of  the  religious  trust,  resignation,  and  sweetness  of  her 
nature. 

*  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee,*  was  written  for  the  South  Place 
Chapel  service.  There  are  stories  of  its  echoes  having  been  heard 
from  a  dilapidated  log  cabin  in  Arkansas,  from  a  remote  corner  of 
the  north  of  England,  and  from  the  Heights  of  Benjamin  in  the  Holy 


SARAH   FLOWER  ADAMS  I^^ 

Land.  But  even  its  devotion  and  humility  have  not  escaped  censure  — 
arising,  perhaps,  from  denominational  bias.  The  fault  found  with  it 
is  the  fault  of  Addison's  ^  How  are  thy  servants  blessed,  O  Lord,* 
and  the  fault  of  the  Psalmody  begun  by  Sternhold  and  Hopkins, 
which,  published  in  Geneva  in  1556,  electrified  the  congregation  of 
six  thousand  souls  in  Elizabeth's  reign, —  it  has  no  direct  reference 
to  Jesus.  Compilers  of  hymn-books  have  sought  to  rectify  what  they 
deem  a  lapse  in  Christian  spirit  by  the  substitution  of  a  verse  begin- 
ing  <<  Christ  alone  beareth  me.**  But  the  quality  of  the  interpolated 
verse  is  so  inferior  to  the  lyric  itself  that  it*  has  not  found  general 
acceptance.  Others,  again,  with  an  excess  of  zeal,  have  endeavored 
to  substitute  <^the  Cross**  for  «a  cross**  in  the  first  stanza. 

An  even  share  of  its  extraordinary  vogue  must  in  bare  justice  be 
credited  to  the  tune  which  Dr.  Lowell  Mason  has  made  an  insepa- 
rable part  of  it;  though  this  does  not  detract  in  the  least  from  its 
own  high  merit,  or  its  capacity  to  satisfy  the  feelings  of  a  devout 
soul.  A  taking  melody  is  the  first  condition  of  even  the  loveliest 
song's  obtaining  popularity;  and  this  hymn  was  sung  for  many  years 
to  various  tunes,  including  chants,  with  no  general  recognition  of  its 
quality.  It  was  Dr.  Mason's  tune,  written  about  i860,  which  sent  it 
at  once  into  the  hearts  of  the  people. 


HE  SENDETH  SUN^  HE  SENDETH  SHOWER 

HE  SENDETH  sun,  he  sendeth  shower, 
Alike  they're  needful  to  the  flower; 
And  joys  and  tears  alike  are  sent 
To  give  the  soul  fit  nourishment. 
As  comes  to  me  or  cloud  or  sun. 
Father!  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 

Can  loving  children  e'er  reprove 

With  murmurs,  whom  they  trust  and  love? 

Creator,  I  would  ever  be 

A  trusting,  loving  child  to  thee: 

As  comes  to  me  or  cloud  or  sun. 

Father!  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 

Oh,  ne'er  will  I  at  life  repine, — 
Enough  that  thou  hast  made  it  mine. 
When  falls  the  shadow  cold  of  death, 
I  yet  will  sing  with  parting  breath, 
As  comes  to  me  or  cloud  or  sun, 
Father!  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done. 


148  SARAH    FLOWER    ADAMS 

NEARER,  MY  GOD,  TO  THEE 

NEARER,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 
That  raiseth  me; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be,  — 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee! 

* 

Though,  like  a  wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down. 
Darkness  be  over  me. 

My  rest  a  stone; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  I'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

There  let  the  way  appear 

Steps  unto  heaven; 
All  that  thou  sendest  me 
;;  In  mercy  given; 

Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee! 

Then  with  my  waking  thoughts 

Bright  with  thy  praise, 
Out  of  my  stony  griefs 
"  Bethel  I'll  raise; 

So  by  my  woes  to  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee. 
Nearer  to  thee! 

Or  if  on  joyful  wing. 

Cleaving  the  sky. 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot. 

Upward  I  fly; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, — 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee! 

From  < Adoration,  Aspiration,  and  Belief.' 


•  o  ''     'j*   J'°l   •  '"«*    •    'V» 


149 

JOSEPH    ADDISON 

(1672-1719) 

BY    HAMILTON    WRIGHT    MABIE 

Jhere  are  few  figures  in  literary  history  more  dignified  and 
attractive  than  Joseph  Addison;  few  men  more  eminently 
representative,  not  only  of  literature  as  a  profession,  but  of 
literature  as  an  art.  It  has  happened  more  than  once  that  literary 
gifts  of  a  high  order  have  been  lodged  in  very  frail  moral  tenements; 
that  taste,  feeling,  and  felicity  of  expression  have  been  divorced  from 
general  intellectual  power,  from  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  best 
in  thought  and  art,  from  grace  of  manner  and  dignity  of  life.  There 
have  been  writers  of  force  and  originality  who  failed  to  attain  a  rep- 
resentative eminence,  to  identify  themselves  with  their  art  in  the 
memory  of  the  world.  There  have  been  other  writers  without  claim 
to  the  possession  of  gifts  of  the  highest  order,  who  have  secured  this 
distinction  by  virtue  of  harmony  of  character  and  work,  of  breadth 
of  interest,  and  of  that  fine  intelligence  which  instinctively  allies 
itself  with  the  best  in  its  time.  Of  this  class  Addison  is  an  illustrious 
example.  His  gifts  are  not  of  the  highest  order;  there  was  none  of 
the  spontaneity,  abandon,  or  fertility  of  genius  in  him;  his  thought 
made  no  lasting  contribution  to  the  highest  intellectual  life;  he  set  no 
pulses  beating  by  his  eloquence  of  style,  and  fired  no  imagination  by 
the  insight  and  emotion  of  his  verse;  he  was  not  a  scholar  in  the 
technical  sense:  and  yet,  in  an  age  which  was  stirred  and  stung  by 
the  immense  satiric  force  of  Swift,  charmed  by  the  wit  and  elegance 
of  Pope,  moved  by  the  tenderness  of  Steele,  and  enchanted  by  the 
fresh  realism  of  De  Foe,  Addison  holds  the  most  representative  place. 
He  is,  above  all  others,  the  Man  of  Letters  of  his  time;  his  name 
instantly  evokes  the  literature  of  his  period. 

Born  in  the  rectory  at  Milston,  Wiltshire,  on  May  Day,  1672,  it  was 
Addison's  fortune  to  take  up  the  profession  of  Letters  at  the  very 
moment  when  it  was  becoming  a  recognized  profession,  with  a  field 
of  its  own,  and  with  emoluments  sufficient  in  kind  to  make  decency 
of  living  possible,  and  so  related  to  a  man's  work  that  their  accept- 
ance involved  loss  neither  of  dignity  nor  of  independence.  He  was 
contemporary  with  the  first  English  publisher,  Jacob  Tonson.  He 
was  also  contemporary  with  the  notable  reorganization  of  English 
prose  which  freed  it  from  exaggeration,  complexity,  and  obscurity; 
and  he  contributed  not  a  little  to  the  flexibility,  charm,  balance,  and 
ease  which  have  sJBCe  eJjaracterized  its  best  examples.     He  saw  the 


15©  \  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

rise  of  polite  society  in  its  modem  sense;  the  development  of  the 
social  resources  of  the  city;  the  enlargement  of  what  is  called  *the 
reading  class®  to  embrace  all  classes  in  the  community  and  all  orders 
in  the  nation.  And  he  was  one  of  the  first,  following  the  logic  of 
?.  free  press,  an  organized  business  for  the  sale  of  books,  and  the 
appearance  of  popular  interest  in  literature,  to  undertake  that  work  of 
translating  the  best  thought,  feeling,  sentiment,  and  knowledge  of 
his  time,  and  of  all  times,  into  the  language  of  the  drawing-room,  the 
club,  and  the  street,  which  has  done  so  much  to  humanize  and  civilize 
the  modern  world. 

To  recognize  these  various  opportunities,  to  feel  intuitively  the 
drift  of  sentiment  and  conviction,  and  so  to  adjust  the  uses  of  art  to 
life  as  to  exalt  the  one.  and  enrich  and  refine  the  other,  involved 
not  only  the  possession  of  gifts  of  a  high  order,  but  that  training 
which  puts  a  man  in  command  of  himself  and  of  his  materials. 
Addison  was  fortunate  in  that  incomparably  important  education 
which  assails  a  child  through  every  sense,  and  above  all  through  the 
imagination  —  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  home,  frugal  in  its  service  to 
the  body,  but  prodigal  in  its  ministry  to  the  spirit.  His  father  was 
a  man  of  generous  culture:  an  Oxford  scholar,  who  had  stood  frankly 
for  the  Monarchy  and  Episcopacy  in  Puritan  times;  a  voluminous  and 
agreeable  writer;  of  whom  Steele  says  that  he  bred  his  five  children 
*with  all  the  care  imaginable  in  a  liberal  and  generous  way.®  From 
this  most  influential  of  schools  Addison  passed  on  to  other  masters: 
from  the  Grammar  School  at  Lichfield,  to  the  well-known  Charter 
House;  and  thence  to  Oxford,  where  he  first  entered  Queen's  College, 
and  later,  became  a  member  of  Magdalen,  to  the  beauty  of  whose 
architecture  and  natural  situation  the  tradition  of  his  walks  and  per- 
sonality adds  no  small  charm.  He  was  a  close  student,  shy  in  man- 
ner, given  to  late  hours  of  work.  His  literary  tastes  and  appetite 
were  early  disclosed,  and  in  his  twenty-second  year  he  was  already 
known  in  London,  had  written  an  <  Account  of  the  Greatest  English 
Poets,'  and  had  addressed  some  complimentary  verses  to  Dryden, 
then  the  recognized  head  of  English  Letters. 

While  Addison  was  hesitating  what  profession  to  follow,  the  lead- 
ers of  the  political  parties  were  casting  about  for  men  of  literary 
power.  A  new  force  had  appeared  in  English  politics — the  force  of 
public  opinion;  and  in  their  experiments  to  control  and  direct  this 
novel  force,  politicians  were  eager  to  secure  the  aid  of  men  of  Let- 
ters. The  shiftin-j  of  power  to  the  House  of  Commons  involved  a 
radical  readjustment,  not  only  of  the  mechanism  of  political  action, 
but  of  the  attitude  of  public  men  to  the  nation.  They  felt  the  need 
of  trained  and  persuasive  interpreters  and  advocates;  of  the  resources 
of  wit,  satire,  and  humor.     It  was  this  very  practical  service  which 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  1^1 

literature  was  in  the  way  of  rendering  to  political  parties,  rather  than 
any  deep  regard  for  literature  itself,  which  brought  about  a  brief  but 
brilliant  alliance  between  groups  of  men  who  have  not  often  worked 
together  to  mutual  advantage.  It  must  be  said,  however,  that  there 
was  among  the  great  Whig  and  Tory  leaders  of  the  time  a  certain 
liberality  of  taste,  and  a  care  for  those  things  which  give  public  life 
dignity  and  elegance,  which  were  entirely  absent  from  Robert  Wal- 
pole  and  the  leaders  of  the  two  succeeding  reigns,  when  literature 
and  politics  were  completely  divorced,  and  the  government  knew 
little  and  cared  less  for  the  welfare  of  the  arts.  Addison  came  on 
the  stage  at  the  very  moment  when  the  government  was  not  only 
ready  but  eager  to  foster  such  talents  as  his.  He  was  a  Whig  of 
pronounced  although  modern  type,  and  the  Whigs  were  in  power. 

Lord  Somers  and  Charles  Montagu,  better  known  later  as  Lord 
Halifax,  were  the  heads  of  the  ministry,  and  his  personal  friends  as 
well.  They  were  men  of  culture,  lovers  of  Letters,  and  not  unap- 
preciative  of  the  personal  distinction  which  already  stamped  the 
studious  and  dignified  Magdalen  scholar.  A  Latin  poem  on  the  Peace 
of  Ryswick,  dedicated  to  Montagu,  happily  combined  Virgilian  elc' 
gance  and  felicity  with  Whig  sentiment  and  achievement.  It  con- 
firmed the  judgment  already  formed  of  Addison's  ability;  and,  setting 
aside  with  friendly  insistence  the  plan  of  putting  that  ability  into  the 
service  of  the  Church,  Montagu  secured  a  pension  of  ;^3oo  for  the 
purpose  of  enabling  Addison  to  fit  himself  for  public  employment 
abroad  by  thorough  study  of  the  French  language,  and  of  manners, 
methods,  and  institutions  on  the  Continent.  With  eight  Latin  poems, 
published  in  the  second  volume  of  the  *Musae  Anglicanae,'  as  an 
introduction  to  foreign  scholars,  and  armed  with  letters  of  introduction 
from  Montagu  to  many  distinguished  personages,  Addison  left  Oxford 
in  the  summer  of  1699,  and,  after  a  prolonged  stay  at  Blois  for  pur- 
poses of  study,  visited  many  cities  and  interesting  localities  in  France, 
Italy,  Switzerland,  Austria,  Germany,  and  Holland.  The  shy,  reticent, 
but  observing  young  traveler  was  everywhere  received  with  the 
courtesy  which  early  in  the  century  had  made  so  deep  an  impression 
on  the  young  Milton.  He  studied  hard,  saw  much,  and  meditated 
more.  He  was  not  only  fitting  himself  for  public  service,  but  for 
that  delicate  portraiture  of  manners  which  was  later  to  become  his 
distinctive  work.  Clarendon  had  already  drawn  a  series  of  lifelike 
portraits  of  men  of  action  in  the  stormy  period  of  the  Revolution : 
Addison  was  to  sketch  the  society  of  his  time  with  a  touch  at  once 
delicate  and  firm ;  to  exhibit  its  life  in  those  aspects  which  emphasize 
individual  humor  and  personal  quality,  against  a  carefully  wrought 
background  of  habit,  manners,  usage,  and  social  condition.  The 
habit  of  observation  and  the  wide  acquaintance  with  cultivated  and 


152  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

elegant  social  life  which  was  a  necessary  part  of  the  training  for  the 
work  which  was  later  to  appear  in  the  pages  of  the  Spectator,  were 
perhaps  the  richest  educational  results  of  these  years  of  travel  and 
study;  for  Addison  the  official  is  a  comparatively  obscure  figure,  but 
Addison  the  writer  is  one  of  the  most  admirable  and  attractive  figures 
in  English  history. 

Addison  returned  to  England  in  1703  with  clouded  prospects.  The 
accession  of  Queen  Anne  had  been  followed  by  the  dismissal  of  the 
Whigs  from  office;  his  pension  was  stopped,  his  opportunity  of  ad- 
vancement gone,  and  his  father  dead.  The  skies  soon  brightened, 
however:  the  support  of  the  Whigs  became  necessary  to  the  Govern- 
ment; the  brilliant  victory  of  Blenheim  shed  lustre  not  only  on  Marl- 
borough, but  on  the  men  with  whom  he  was  politically  affiliated;  and 
there  was  great  dearth  of  poetic  ability  in  the  Tory  ranks  at  the  very 
moment  when  a  notable  achievement  called  for  brave  and  splendid 
verse.  Lord  Godolphin,  that  easy-going  and  eminently  successful 
politician  of  whom  Charles  the  Second  once  shrewdly  said  that  he 
was  ^*  never  in  the  way  and  never  out  of  it,^^  was  directed  to  Addison 
in  this  emergency;  and  the  story  goes  that  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer,  afterward  Lord  Carleton,  who  was  sent  to  express  to  the 
needy  scholar  the  wishes  of  the  Government,  found  him  lodged  in  a 
garret  over  a  small  shop.  The  result  of  this  memorable  embassy 
from  politics  to  literature  was  *  The  Campaign  > :  an  eminently  suc- 
cessful poem  of  the  formal,  <* occasional**  order,  which  celebrated  the 
victor  of  Blenheim  with  tact  and  taste,  pleased  the  ministry,  delighted 
the  public,  and  brought  reputation  and  fortune  to  its  unknown 
writer.  Its  excellence  is  in  skillful  avoidance  of  fulsome  adulation,  in 
the  exclusion  of  the  well-worn  classical  allusions,  and  in  a  straight- 
forward celebration  of  those  really  great  qualities  in  Marlborough 
which  set  his  military  career  in  brilliant  contrast  with  his  private  life. 
The  poem  closed  with  a  simile  which  took  the  world  by  storm:  — 

<<So  when  an  angel,  by  divine  command, 
W^ith  rising  tempests  shakes  a  guilty  land, 
(Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  passed,) 
Calm  and  serene  he  drives  the  furious  blast; 
And,  pleased  the  Almighty's  orders  to  perform. 
Rides  in  the  whirlwind  and  directs  the  storm.» 

*< Addison  left  off  at  a  good  moment,**  says  Thackeray.  <'That 
simile  was  pronounced  to  be  the  greatest  ever  produced  in  poetry. 
That  angel,  that  good  angel,  flew  off  with  Mr.  Addison,  and  landed 
him  in  the  place  of  Commissioner  of  Appeals  —  vice  Mr.  Locke,  provi- 
dentially promoted.  In  the  following  year  Mr.  Addison  went  to 
Hanover  with  Lord  Halifax,  and  the  year  after  was  made  Under- 
Secretary  of  State.    O  angel  visits!    You  come  *few  and  far  between* 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  I^^ 

to  literary  gentlemen's  lodgings !  Your  wings  seldom  quiver  at  the 
second-floor  windows  now!'* 

The  prize  poem  was  followed  by  a  narrative  of  travel  in  Italy, 
happily  written,  full  of  felicitous  description,  and  touched  by  a  humor 
which,  in  quality  and  manner,  was  new  to  English  readers.  Then 
came  one  of  those  indiscretions  of  the  imagination  which  showed 
that  the  dignified  and  somewhat  sober  young  poet,  the  "parson  in  a 
tye-wig,*'  as  he  was  called  at  a  later  day,  was  not  lacking  in  gayety 
of  mood.  The  opera  *  Rosamond  *  was  not  a  popular  success,  mainly 
because  the  music  to  which  it  was  set  fell  so  far  below  it  in  grace 
and  ease.  It  must  be  added,  however,  that  Addison  lacked  the  quali- 
ties of  a  successful  libretto  writer.  He  was  too  serious,  and  despite 
the  lightness  of  his  touch,  there  was  a  certain  rigidity  in  him  which 
made  him  unapt  at  versification  which  required  quickness,  agility, 
and  variety.  When  he  attempted  to  give  his  verse  gayety  of  manner, 
he  did  not'  get  beyond  awkward  simulation  of  an  ease  which  nature 

had  denied  him:  — 

« Since  conjugal  passion 

Is  come  into  fashion, 

And  marriage  so  blest  on  the  throne  is. 

Like  a  Venus  I'll  shine, 

Be  fond  and  be  fine. 

And  Sir  Trusty  shall  be  my  Adonis. » 

•  Meantime,  in  spite  of  occasional  clouds,  Addison's  fortunes  were 
steadily  advancing.  The  Earl  of  Wharton  was  appointed  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant of  Ireland,  and  Addison  accepted  the  lucrative  post  of  Secre- 
tary. Spenser  had  found  time  and  place,  during  a  similar  service  in 
the  same  country,  to  complete  the  *  Faery  Queene';  although  the  fair 
land  in  which  the  loveliest  of  English  poems  has  its  action  was  not 
unvexed  by  the  chronic  turbulence  of  a  mercurial  and  badly  used 
race.  Irish  residence  was  coincident  in  Addison's  case,  not  only  with 
prosperous  fortunes  and  with  important  friendships,  but  also  with  the 
beginning  of  the  work  on  which  his  fame  securely  rests.  In  Ireland 
the  acquaintance  he  had  already  made  in  London  with  Swift  ripened 
into  a  generous  friendship,  which  for  a  time  resisted  political  differ- 
ences when  such  differences  were  the  constant  occasion  of  personal 
animosity  and  bitterness.  The  two  men  represented  the  age  in  an 
uncommonly  complete  way.  Swift  had  the  gfreater  genius:  he  was, 
indeed,  in  respect  of  natural  endowment,  the  foremost  man  of  his 
time;  but  his  nature  was  undisciplined,  his  temper  uncertain,  and  his 
great  powers  quite  as  much  at  the  service  of  his  pa&sions  as  of  his 
principles.  He  made  himself  respected,  feared,  and  finally  hated; 
his  lack  of  restraint  and  balance,  his  ferocity  of  spirit  when  opposed, 
and  the   violence   with    which   he    assailed    his   enemies^  neutralized 


154  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

his  splendid  gifts,  marred  his  fortune,  and  sent  him  into  lonely  exile 
at  Dublin,  where  he  longed  for  the  ampler  world  of  London.  Few 
figures  in  literary  history  are  more  pathetic  than  that  of  the  old 
Dean  of  St.  Patrick's,  broken  in  spirit,  failing  in  health,  his  noble 
faculties  gone  into  premature  decay,  forsaken,  bitter,  and  remorseful. 
At  the  time  of  Addison's  stay  in  Ireland,  the  days  of  Swift's  eclipse 
were,  however,  far  distant;  both  men  were  in  their  prime.  That 
Swift  loved  Addison  is  clear  enough;  and  it  is  easy  to  understand 
the  qualities  which  made  Addison  one  of  the  most  deeply  loved  men 
of  his  time.  He  was  of  an  eminently  social  temper,  although  averse 
to  large  companies  and  shy  and  silent  in  their  presence.  "There  is 
no  such  thing,  >*  he  once  said,  <<as  real  conversation  but  between  two 
persons.**  He  was  free  from  malice,  meanness,  or  jealousy,  Pope  to 
the  contrary  notwithstanding.  He  was  absolutely  loyal  to  his  prin- 
ciples and  to  his  friends,  in  a  time  when  many  men  changed  both 
with  as  little  compunction  as  they  changed  wigs  and  swords.  His 
personality  was  singularly  winning;  his  features  regular,  and  full  of 
refinement  and  intelligence;  his  bearing  dignified  and  graceful;  his 
temper  kindly  and  in  perfect  control;  his  character  without  a  stain; 
his  conversation  enchanting,  its  charm  confessed  by  persons  so 
diverse  in  taste  as  Pope,  Swift,  Steele,  and  Young.  Lady  Mary 
Montagu  declared  that  he  was  the  best  company  she  had  ever  known. 
He  had  two  faults  of  which  the  world  has  heard  much:  he  loved  the 
company  of  men  who  flattered  him,  and  at  times  he  used  wine 
too  freely.  The  first  of  these  defects  was  venial,  and  did  not  blind 
his  judgment  either  of  himself  or  his  friends;  the  second  defect  was 
so  common  among  the  men  of  his  time  that  Addison's  occasional 
over-indulgence,  in  contrast  with  the  excesses  of  others,  seems  like 
temperance  itself. 

The  harmony  and  symmetry  of  this  winning  personality  has,  in  a 
sense,  told  against  it;  for  men  are  prone  to  call  the  well-balanced 
nature  cold  and  the  well-regulated  life  Pharisaic.  Addison  did  not 
escape  charges  of  this  kind  from  the  wild  livers  of  his  own  time, 
who  could  not  dissociate  genius  from  profligacy  nor  generosity  of 
nature  from  prodigality.  It  was  one  of  the  great  services  of  Addison 
to  his  generation  and  to  all  generations,  that  in  an  age  of  violent 
passions,  he  showed  how  a  strong  man  could  govern  himself.  In  a 
time  of  reckless  living,  he  illustrated  the  power  which  flows  from 
subordination  of  pleasure  to  duty.  In  a  day  when  wit  was  identified 
with  malice,  he  brought  out  its  power  to  entertain,  surprise,  and 
delight,  without  taking  on  the  irreverent  levity  of  Voltaire,  the  bit- 
terness of  Swift,  or  the  malice  of  Pope. 

It  was  during  Addison's  stay  in  Ireland  that  Richard  Steele  pro- 
jected the   Tatler,  and  brought  out  the    first  number  in    1709.     His 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  1 55 

friendship  for  Addison  amounted  almost  to  a  passion;  their  intimacy 
was  cemented  by  harmony  of  tastes  and  diversity  of  character. 
Steele  was  ardent,  impulsive,  warm-hearted,  mercurial;  full  of  aspi- 
ration and  beset  by  lamentable  weaknesses, —  preaching  the  highest 
morality  and  constantly  falling  into  the  prevalent  vices  of  his  time; 
a  man  so  lovable  of  temper,  so  generous  a  spirit,  and  so  frank  a 
nature,  that  his  faults  seem  to  humanize  his  character  rather  than 
to  weaken  and  stain  it.  Steele's  g^ifts  were  many,  and  they  were 
always  at  the  service  of  his  feelings;  he  had  an  Irish  warmth  of 
sympathy  and  an  Irish  readiness  of  humor,  with  great  facility  of 
inventiveness,  and  an  inexhaustible  interest  in  all  aspects  of  human 
experience.  There  had  been  political  journals  in  England  since  the 
time  of  the  Revolution,  but  Steele  conceived  the  idea  of  a  journal 
which  should  comment  on  the  events  and  characteristics  of  the  time 
in  a  bright  and  humorous  way;  using  freedom  with  judgment  and 
taste,  and  attacking  the  vices  and  follies  of  the  time  with  the  light 
equipment  of  wit  rather  than  with  the  heavy  armament  of  the  formal 
moralist.  The  time  was  ripe  for  such  an  enterprise.  London  was 
full  of  men  and  women  of  brilliant  parts,  whose  manners,  tastes, 
and  talk  presented  rich  material  for  humorous  report  and  delineation 
or  for  satiric  comment.  Society,  in  the  modem  sense,  was  fast  tak- 
ing form,  and  the  resources  of  social  intercourse  were  being  rapidly 
developed.  Men  in  public  life  were  intimately  allied  with  society 
and  sensitive  to  its  opinion;  and  men  of  all  interests — public,  fashion- 
able, literary  —  gathered  in  groups  at  the  different  chocolate  or  coffee 
houses,  and  formed  a  kind  of  organized  community.  It  was  distinctly 
an  aristocratic  society:  elegant  in  dress,  punctilious  in  manner,  exact- 
ing in  taste,  ready  to  be  amused,  and  not  indifferent  to  criticism 
when  it  took  the  form  of  sprightly  badinage  or  of  keen  and  trench- 
ant satire.  The  informal  organization  of  society,  which  made  it  pos- 
sible to  reach  and  affect  the  Town  as  a  whole,  is  suggested  by  the 
division  of  the  Tatler:  — 

<'A11  accounts  of  Gallantry,  Pleasure,  and  Entertainment,  shall  be 
under  the  article  of  White's  Chocolate-House:  Poetry  under  that  of 
Will's  Coffee-House;  Learning  under  the  title  of  Grecian;  Foreign  and 
Domestic  News  you  will  have  from  St.  James's  Coffee-House:  and 
what  else  I  have  to  offer  on  any  other  subject  shall  be  dated  from 
my  own  apartment.'* 

So  wrote  Steele  in  his  introduction  to  the  readers  of  the  new  jour- 
nal, which  was  to  appear  three  times  a  week,  at  the  cost  of  a  penny. 
Of  the  coffee-houses  enumerated,  St.  James's  and  White's  were  the 
headquarters  of  men  of  fashion  and  of  politics;  the  Grecian  of  men  of 
legal  learning;  Will's  of  men  of  Letters.  The  Tatler  was  successful 
from  the  start.     It  was  novel  in  form  and  in  spirit;  it  was  sprightly 


156  .  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

without  being  frivolous,  witty  without  being  indecent,  keen  without 
being  libelous  or  malicious.  In  the  general  license  and  coarseness  of 
the  time,  so  close  to  the  Restoration  and  the  powerful  reaction  against 
Puritanism,  the  cleanness,  courtesy,  and  good  taste  which  characterized 
the  journal  had  all  the  charm  of  a  new  diversion.  In  paper  No.  18, 
Addison  made  his  appearance  as  a  contributor,  and  gave  the  world 
the  first  of  those  inimitable  essays  which  influenced  their  own  time  so 
widely,  and  which  have  become  the  solace  and  delight  of  all  times. 
To  Addison's  influence  may  perhaps  be  traced  the  change  which 
came  over  the  Tatler,  and  which  is  seen  in  the  gradual  disappearance 
of  the  news  element,  and  the  steady  drift  of  the  paper  away  from 
journalism  and  toward  literature.  Society  soon  felt  the  full  force  of 
the  extraordinary  talent  at  the  command  of  the  new  censor  of  con- 
temporary manners  and  morals.  There  was  a  well-directed  and  inces- 
sant fire  of  wit  against  the  prevailing  taste  of  dramatic  art;  against 
the  vices  of  gambling  and  dueling;  against  extravagance  and  affect- 
ation of  dress  and  manner:  and  there  was  also  criticism  of  a  new 
order. 

The  Tatler  was  discontinued  in  January,  171 1,  and  the  first  num- 
ber of  the  Spectator  appeared  in  March.  The  new  journal  was  issued 
daily,  but  it  made  no  pretensions  to  newspaper  timeliness  or  interest; 
it  aimed  to  set  a  new  standard  in  manners,  morals,  and  taste,  with- 
out assuming  the  airs  of  a  teacher.  "It  was  said  of  Socrates,'^  wrote 
Addison,  in  a  memorable  chapter  in  the  new  journal,  "that  he 
brought  Philosophy  down  from  heaven  to  inhabit  among  men;  and  I 
shall  be  happy  to  have  it  said  of  me  that  I  have  brought  Philosophy 
out  of  closets  and  libraries,  schools  and  colleges,  to  dwell  in  clubs 
and  assemblies,  at  tea-tables  and  in  coffee-houses.^^  For  more  than 
two  years  the  Spectator  discharged  with  inimitable  skill  and  success 
the  difficult  function  of  chiding,  reproving,  and  correcting,  without 
irritating,  wounding,  or  causing  strife.  Swift  found  the  paper  too 
gentle,  but  its  influence  was  due  in  no  small  measure  to  its  persuas- 
iveness. Addison  studied  his  method  of  attack  as  carefully  as  Mat- 
thew Arnold,  who  undertook  a  similar  educational  work  in  our  own 
time,  studied  his  means  of  approach  to  a  public  indifferent  or  hostfle 
to  his  ideas.  The  two  hundred  and  seventy-four  papers  furnished  by 
Addison  to  the  columns  of  the  Spectator  may  be  said  to  mark  the 
full  development  of  English  prose  as  a  free,  flexible,  clear,  and  ele- 
gant medium  of  expressing  the  most  varied  and  delicate  shades  of 
thought.  They  mark  also  the  perfection  of  the  essay  form  in  our 
'literature;  revealing  clear  perception  of  its  limitations  and  of  its 
resources;  easy  masterj'^  of  its  possibilities  of  serious  exposition  and 
of  pervading  charm;  ability  to  employ  its  full  capacity  of  conveying 
seriotis  thought  in  a  manner  at  once  easy  and  authoritative..     They 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  157 

mark  also  the  begitinitig  of  a  deeper  and  more  intelligent  criticism; 
for  their  exposition  of  Milton  may  be  said  to  point  the  way  to  a  new 
quality  of  literary  judgment  and  a  new  order  of  literary  comment. 
These  papers  mark,  finally,  the  beginnings  of  the  English  novel;  for 
they  contain  a  series  of  character-studies  full  of  insight,  delicacy  of 
drawing,  true  feeling,  and  sureness  of  touch.  Addison  was  not  con- 
tent to  satirize  the  follies,  attack  the  vices,  and  picture  the  manners 
of  his  times:  he  created  a  group  of  figures  which  stand  out  as  dis- 
tinctly as  those  which  were  drawn  more  than  a  century  later  by 
the  hand  of  Thackeray,  our  greatest  painter  of  manners.  De  Foe  had 
not  yet  published  the  first  of  the  great  modern  novels  of  incident 
and  adventure  in  <  Robinson  Crusoe,  ^  and  Richardson,  Fielding,  and 
Smollett  were  unborn  or  unknown,  when  Addison  was  sketching  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley  and  Will  Honeycomb,  and  filling  in  the  back- 
ground with  charming  studies  of  life  in  London  and  in  the  country. 
The  world  has  instinctively  selected  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  as  the 
truest  of  all  the  creations  of  Addison's  imagination ;  and  it  sheds  clear 
light  on  the  fineness  of  Addison's  nature  that  among  the  four  charac- 
ters in  fiction  whom  English  readers  have  agn'eed  to  accept  as  typical 
gentlemen, —  Don  Quixote,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  Henry  Esmond,  and 
Colonel  Newcombe, — the  old  English  baronet  holds  a  secure  place. 

Finished  in  style,  but  genuinely  human  in  feeling,  betraying  the 
nicest  choice  of  words  and  the  most  studied  care  for  elegant  and 
effective  arrangement,  and  yet  penetrated  by  geniality,  enlivened  by 
humor,  elevated  by  high  moral  aims,  often  using  the  dangerous 
weapons  of  irony  and  satire,  and  yet  always  well-mannered  and 
kindly,  —  these  papers  reveal  the  sensitive  nature  of  Addison  and  the 
delicate  but  thoroughly  tempered  art  which  he  had  at  his  command. 

Rarely  has  literature  of  so  high  an  order  had  such  instant  suc- 
cess; for  the  popularity  of  the  Spectator  has  been  rivaled  in  English 
literature  only  by  that  of  the  Waverley  novels  or  of  the  novels  of 
Dickens.  Its  influence  was  felt  not  only  in  the  sentiment  of  the 
day,  and  in  the  crowd  of  imitators  which  followed  in  its  wake,  but 
also  across  the  Channel.  In  Germany,  especially,  the  genius  and 
.^ethods  of  Addison  made  a  deep  and  lasting  impression. 

No  man  could  reach  such  eminence  in  the  first  quarter  of  the 
last  century  without  being  tempted  to  try  his  hand  at  play-writing; 
and  the  friendly  fortune  which  seemed  to  serve  Addison  at  every 
turn  reached  its  climax  in  the  applause  which  greeted  the  production 
of  *Cato.*  The  motive  of  this  tragedy,  constructed  on.  what  were 
then  held  to  be  classic  lines,  is  found  in  the  two  lines  of  the  Pro- 
logue   it  was  an  endeavor  to  portray 

«A  brave  man  struggling  in  the  storms  of  fate, 
And  greatly  falling  with  a  falUng  State. » 


158  •  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

The  play  was  full  of  striking  lines  which  were  instantly  caught 
up  and  applied  to  the  existing  political  situation;  the  theatre  was 
crowded  night  after  night,  and  the  resources  of  Europe  in  the  way 
of  translations,  plaudits,  and  favorable  criticisms  were  exhausted  in 
the  endeavor  to  express  the  general  approval.  The  judgment  of  a 
later  period  has,  however,  assigned  <  Cato  *  a  secondary  place,  and  it 
is  remembered  mainly  on  account  of  its  many  felicitous  passages. 
It  lacks  real  dramatic  unity  and  vitality;  the  character  of  Cato  is 
essentially  an  abstraction;  there  is  little  dramatic  necessity  in  the 
situations  and  incidents.  It  is  rhetorical  rather  than  poetic,  declama- 
tory rather  than  dramatic.  Johnson  aptly  described  it  as  "rather  a 
poem  in  dialogue  than  a  drama,  rather  a  succession  of  just  senti- 
ments in  elegant  language  than  a  representation  of  natural  affections, 
or  of  any  state  probable  or  possible  in  human  life.** 

Addison's  popularity  touched  its  highest  point  in  the  production 
of  <Cato.*  Even  his  conciliatory  nature  could  not  disarm  the  envy 
which  such  brilliant  success  naturally  aroused,  nor  wholly  escape  the 
bitterness  which  the  intense  political  feeling  of  the  time  constantly 
bred  between  ambitious  and  able  men.  Political  differences  separated 
him  from  Swift,  and  Steele's  uncertain  character  and  inconsistent 
course  blighted  what  was  probably  the  most  delightful  intimacy  of 
his  life.  Pope  doubtless  believed  that  he  had  good  ground  for  char- 
ging Addison  with  jealousy  and  insincerity,  and  in  17 15  an  open 
rupture  took  place  between  them.  The  story  of  the  famous  quarrel 
was  first  told  by  Pope,  and  his  version  was  long  accepted  in  many 
quarters  as  final;  but  later  opinion  inclines  to  hold  Addison  guiltless 
of  the  grave  accusations  brought  against  him.  Pope  was  morbidly 
sensitive  to  slights,  morbidly  eager  for  praise,  and  extremely  irritable. 
To  a  man  of  such  temper,  trifles  light  as  air  became  significant  of 
malice  and  hatred.  Such  trifles  unhappily  confirmed  Pope's  sus- 
picions; his  self-love  was  wounded,  sensitiveness  became  animosity, 
and  -  animosity  became  hate,  which  in  the  end  inspired  the  most 
stinging  bit  of  satire  in  the  language:  — 

« Should  such  a  one,  resolved  to  reign  alone. 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  no  brother  near  the  throne. 
View  him  with  jealous  yet  with  scornful  eyes, 
Hate  him  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise. 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer. 
And,  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneerj 
Alike  unused  to  blame  or  to  commend, 
A  timorous  foe  and  a  suspicious  friend. 
Fearing  e'en  fools,  by  flatterers  besieged. 
And  so  obliging  that  he  ne'er  obliged; 
Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike.* 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  159 

There  was  just  enough  semblance  of  truth  in  these  inimitable 
lines  to  give  them  lasting  stinging  power;  but  that  they  were  grossly 
unjust  is  now  generally  conceded.  Addison  was  human,  and  there- 
fore not  free  from  the  frailties  of  men  of  his  profession;  but  there 
was  no  meanness  in  him. 

Addison's  loyalty  to  the  Whig  party  and  his  ability  to  serve  it 
kept  him  in  intimate  relations  with  its  leaders  and  bound  him  to  its 
fortunes.  He  served  the  Whig  cause  in  Parliament,  and  filled  many 
positions  which  required  tact  and  judgment,  attaining  at  last  the 
very  dignified  post  of  Secretary  of  State.  A  long  attachment  for 
the  Countess  of  Warwick  culminated  in  marriage  in  17 16,  and 
Addison  took  up  his  residence  in  Holland  House;  a  house  famous 
for  its  association  with  men  of  distinction  in  politics  and  letters. 
The  marriage  was  not  happy,  if  report  is  to  be  trusted.  The  union 
of  the  ill-adapted  pair  was,  in  any  event,  short-lived;  for  three  years 
later,  in  17 19,  Addison  died  in  his  early  prime,  not  yet  having  com- 
pleted his  forty-eighth  year.  On  his  death-bed,  Young  tells  us,  he 
called  his  stepson  to  his  side  and  said,  <*  See  in  what  peace  a  Christ- 
ian can  die.*  His  body  was  laid  in  Westminster  Abbey;  his  work 
is  one  of  the  permanent  possessions  of  the  English-speaking  race; 
his  character  is  one  of  its  finest  traditions.  He  was,  as  truly  as  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  a  gentleman  in  the  sweetness  of  his  spirit,  the  cour- 
age of  his  convictions,  the  refinement  of  his  bearing,  and  the  purity 
of  his  life.  He  was  unspoiled  by  fortune  and  applause;  uncorrupted 
by  the  tempting  chances  of  his  time;  stainless  in  the  use  of  gifts 
which  in  the  hands  of  a  man  less  true  would  have  caught  the  con- 
tagion of  Pope's  malice  or  of  Swift's  corroding  cynicism. 


^U^^^^^UiLCZ    kJ.h.r4^ 


SIR  ROGER  DE  COVERLEY  AT  THE  PLAY 

From  the  Spectator,  No.  335 

MY  FRIEND  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley,  when  we  last  met  together 
at  the  Club,  told  me,  that  he  had  a  great  mind  to  see  the 
new  Tragedy  with  me,  assuring  me  at  the  same  time  that 
he  had  not  been  at  a  Play  these  twenty  Years.  The  last  I 
saw,  said  Sir  Roger,  was  the  Committee,  which  I  should  not  have 
gone  to  neither,  had  not  I  been  told  beforehand  that  it  was  a 
good  Ch.Virch.-oi- England  Comedy.  He  then  proceeded  to  enquire 
of  me  who  this  Distrest  Mother  was;  and  upon  hearing  that  she 
was  Hector's  Widow,  he  told  me  that  her  Husband  was  a  brave 


l6o  '  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

Man,  and  that  when  he  was  a  Schoolboy  he  had  read  his  Life  at 
the  end  of  the  Dictionary.  My  friend  asked  me  in  the  next 
place,  if  there  would  not  be  some  danger  in  coming  home  late, 
in  case  the  Mohocks'^  should  be  Abroad.  I  assure  you,  says  he, 
I  thought  I  had  fallen  into  their  Hands  last  Night;  for  I  observed 
two  or  three  lusty  black  Men  that  follow 'd  me  half  way  up  Fleet- 
street,  and  mended  their  pace  behind  me,  in  proportion  as  I  put 
on  to  get  away  from  them.  You  must  know,  continu'd  the 
Knight  with  a  Smile,  I  fancied  they  had  a  mind  to  hunt  me;  for 
I  remember  an  honest  Gentleman  in  my  Neighbourhood,  who  was 
served  such  a  trick  in  King  Charles  the  Second's  time;  for  which 
reason  he  has  not  ventured  himself  in  Town  ever  since.  I  might 
have  shown  them  very  good  Sport,  had  this  been  their  Design; 
for  as  I  am  an  old  Fox-hunter,  I  should  have  turned  and  dodg'd, 
and  have  play'd  them  a  thousand  tricks  they  had  never  seen  in 
their  Lives  before.  Sir  Roger  added,  that  if  these  gentlemen  had 
any  such  Intention,  they  did  not  succeed  very  well  in  it:  for  I 
threw  them  out,  says  he,  at  the  End  of  Norfolk  street,  where  I 
doubled  the  Corner,  and  got  shelter  in  my  Lodgings  before  they 
could  imagine  what  was  become  of  me.  However,  says  the 
Knight,  if  Captain  Sentry  will  make  one  with  us  to-morrow 
night,  and  if  you  will  both  of  you  call  upon  me  about  four 
a  Clock,  that  we  may  be  at  the  House  before  it  is  full,  I  will 
have  my  own  Coach  in  readiness  to  attend  you,  for  John  tells  me 
he  has  got  the  Fore -Wheels  mended. 

The  Captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  meet  me  there  at  the 
appointed  Hour,  bid  Sir  Roger  fear  nothing,  for  that  he  had  put 
on  the  same  Sword  which  he  made  use  of  at  the  Battel  of  Steen- 
kirk.  Sir  Roger's  Servants,  and  among  the  rest  my  old  Friend 
the  Butler,  had,  I  found,  provided  themselves  with  good  Oaken 
Plants,  to  attend  their  Master  upon  this  occasion.  When  he  had 
placed  him  in  his  Coach,  with  my  self  at  his  Left- Hand,  the 
Captain  before  him,  and  his  Butler  at  the  Head  of  his  Footmen 
in  the  Rear,  we  convoy'd  him  in  safety  to  the  Play-house,  where, 
after  having  marched  up  the  Entry  in  good  order,  the  Captain 
and  I  went  in  with  him,  and  seated  him  betwixt  us  in  the  Pit. 
As  soon  as  the  House  was  full,  and  the  Candles  lighted,  my  old 
Friend  stood  up  and  looked  about  him  with  that  Pleasure,  which 
a  Mind  seasoned  with  Humanity  naturally  feels  in  its  self,  at  the 

*  London  « bucks »  who  disguised  themselves  as  savages  and  roamed  the 
streets  at  night,  committing  outrages  on  persons  and  property. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  l6l 

sight  of  a  Multittide  of  People  v/ho  seem  pleased  with  one  an- 
other,  and  partake  of  the  same  common  Entertainment.  I  could 
not  but  fancy  to  myself,  as  the  old  Man  stood  up  in  the  middle 
of  the  Pit,  that  he  made  a  very  proper  Center  to  a  Tragick  Au- 
dience. Upon  the  entring  of  Pyrr/ms,  the  Knight  told  me  that 
he  did  not  believe  the  King  of  France  himself  had  a  better  Strut. 
I  was  indeed  very  attentive  to  my  old  Friend's  Remarks,  because 
I  looked  upon  them  as  a  Piece  of  natural  Criticism,  and  was  well 
pleased  to  hear  him  at  the  Conclusion  of  almost  every  Scene, 
telling  me  that  he  could  not  imagine  how  the  Play  would  end. 
One  while  he  appeared  much  concerned  for  Andromache;  and  a 
little  while  after  as  much  for  Hermione:  and  was  extremely  puz- 
zled to  think  what  would  become  of  Pyrrhus. 

When  Sir  Roger  saw  Andromache's  obstinate  Refusal  to  her 
Lover's  importunities,  he  whisper'd  me  in  the  Ear,  that  he  was 
sure  she  would  never  have  him;  to  which  he  added,  with  a  more 
than  ordinary  Vehemence,  You  can't  imagine.  Sir,  what  'tis  to 
have  to  do  with  a  Widow.  Upon  Pyrrhus  his  threatning  after- 
wards to  leave  her,  the  Knight  shook  his  Head,  and  muttered  to 
himself.  Ay,  do  if  you  can.  This  Part  dwelt  so  much 'upon  my 
Friend's  Imagination,  that  at  the  close  of  the  Third  Act,  as  I  was 
thinking  of  something  else,  he  whispered  in  my  Ear,  These 
Widows,  Sir,  are  the  most  perverse  Creatures  in  the  World. 
But  pray,  says  he,  you  that  are  a  Critick,  is  this  Play  accord- 
ing to  your  Dramatick  Rules,  as  you  call  them  ?  Should  your 
People  in  Tragedy  always  talk  to  be  understood  ?  Why,  there 
is  not  a  single  Sentence  in  this  Play  that  I  do  not  know  the 
Meaning  of. 

The  Fourth  Act  very  luckily  begun  before  I  had  time  to  give 
the  old  Gentleman  an  Answer:  Well,  says  the  Knight,  sitting 
down  with  great  Satisfaction,  I  suppose  we  are  now  to  see 
Hector's  Ghost.  He  then  renewed  his  Attention,  and,  from  time 
to  time,  fell  a  praising  the  Widow.  He  made,  indeed,  a  little 
Mistake  as  to  one  of  her  Pages,  whom  at  his  first  entering,  he 
took  for  Astyanax;  but  he  quickly  set  himself  right  in  that  Par- 
ticular, though,  at  the  same  time,  he  owned  he  should  have  been 
very  glad  to  have  seen  the  little  Boy,  who,  says  he,  must  needs 
be  a  very  fine  Child  by  the  Account  that  is  given  of  him.  Upon 
Hermione's  going  off  with  a  Menace  to  Pyrrhus^  the  Audience 
gave  a  loud  Clap;  to  which  Sir  Roger  added,  On  my  Word,  a 
notable  young  Baggage  I 
1 — u 


1 62  \  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

As  there  was  a  very  remarkable  Silence  and  Stillness  in  the 
Audience  during  the  whole  Action,  it  was  natural  for  them  to 
take  the  Opportunity  of  these  Intervals  between  the  Acts,  to 
express  their  Opinion  of  the  Players,  and  of  their  respective 
Parts.  Sir  Roger  hearing  a  Cluster  of  them  praise  Orestes,  struck 
in  with  them,  and  told  them,  that  he  thought  his  Friend  Pylades 
was  a  very  sensible  Man;  as  they  were  afterwards  applauding 
Pyrrhus,  Sir  Roger  put  in  a  second  time;  And  let  me  tell  you, 
says  he,  though  he  speaks  but  little,  I  like  the  old  Fellow  in 
Whiskers  as  well  as  any  of  them.  Captain  Sentry  seeing  two  or 
three  Waggs  who  sat  near  us,  lean  with  an  attentive  Ear  towards 
Sir  Roger,  and  fearing  lest  they  should  Smoke  the  Knight, 
pluck'd  him  by  the  Elbow,  and  whisper'd  something  in  his  Ear, 
that  lasted  till  the  Opening  of  the  Fifth  Act.  The  Knight  was 
wonderfully  attentive  to  the  Account  which  Orestes  gives  of  Pyr- 
rhus his  Death,  and  at  the  Conclusion  of  it,  told  me  it  was  such 
a  bloody  Piece  of  Work,  that  he  was  glad  it  was  not  done  upon 
ihe  Stage.  Seeing  afterwards  Orestes  in  his  raving  Fit,  he  grew 
more  than  ordinary  serious,  and  took  occasion  to  moralize  (in  his 
way)  upon  an  Evil  Conscience,  adding,  that  Orestes^  in  his  Mad- 
ness,  looked  as  if  he  saw  something. 

As  we  were  the  first  that  came  into  the  House,  so  we  were 
the  last  that  went  out  of  it;  being  resolved  to  have  a  clear  Pass- 
age for  our  old  Friend,  whom  we  did  not  care  to  venture  among 
the  justling  of  the  Crowd.  Sir  Roger  went  out  fully  satisfied 
with  his  Entertainment,  and  we  guarded  him  to  his  Lodgings  in 
the  same  manner  that  we  brought  him  to  the  Playhouse;  being 
highly  pleased,  for  my  own  part,  not  only  with  the  Performance 
of  the  excellent  Piece  which  had  been  Presented,  but  with  the 
Satisfaction  which  it  had  given  to  the  good  old  Man.  L. 

A  VISIT  TO   SIR  ROGER  DE   COVERLEY 
From  the  Spectator,  No,  io6 

HAVING  often  received  an  Invitation  from  my  Friend  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley  to  pass  away  a  Month  with  him  in  the  Country, 
I  last  Week  accompanied  him  thither,  and  am  settled  with 
him  for  some  time  at  his  Country-house,  where  I  intend  to  form 
several  of  my  ensuing  Speculations.  Sir  Roger,  who  is  very  well 
acquainted  with  my  Humour,  lets  me  rise  and  go  to  Bed  when  I 
please,  dine  at  his  own  Table  or  in  my  Chamber  as  I  think  fit, 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  163 

sit  Still  and  say  nothing  without  bidding  me  be  merry.  When 
the  Gentlemen  of  the  Country  come  to  see  him,  he  only  shews 
me  at  a  distance:  As  I  have  been  walking  in  his  Fields  I  have 
observed  them  stealing  a  Sight  of  me  over  an  Hedge,  and  have 
heard  the  Knight  desiring  them  not  to  let  me  see  them,  for  that 
I  hated  to  be  stared  at. 

I  am  the  more  at  Ease  in  Sir  Roger's  Family,  because  it  con- 
sists of  sober  and  staid  Persons:  for  as  the  Knight  is  the  best 
Master  in  the  World,  he  seldom  changes  his  Servants;  and  as  he 
4^  beloved  by  all  about  him,  his  Servants  never  care  for  leaving 
him:  by  this  means  his  Domesticks  are  all  in  years,  and  grown 
old  with  their  Master.  You  would  take  his  Valet  de  Chambre 
for  his  Brother,  his  Butler  is  grey-headed,  his  Groom  is  one  of 
the  Gravest  men  that  I  have  ever  seen,  and  his  Coachman  has 
the  Looks  of  a  Privy- Counsellor.  You  see  the  Goodness  of  the 
Master  even  in  the  old  House-dog,  and  in  a  grey  Pad  that  is 
kept  in  the  Stable  with  great  Care  and  Tenderness  out  of  Regard 
to  his  past  Services,   tho'  he  has  been  useless  for  several  Years. 

I  could  not  but  observe  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  the  Joy 
that  appeared  in  the  Countenances  of  these  ancient  Domesticks 
upon  my  Friend's  Arrival  at  his  Country- Seat.  Some  of  them 
o could  not  refrain  from  Tears  at  the  Sight  of  their  old  Master; 
every  one  of  them  press'd  forward  to  do  something  for  him,  and 
seemed  discouraged  if  they  were  not  employed.  At  the  same 
time  the  good  old  Knight,  with  a  Mixture  of  the  Father  and  the 
Master  of  the  Family,  tempered  the  Enquiries  after  his  own 
Affairs  with  several  kind  Questions  relating  to  themselves.  This 
Humanity  and  good  Nature  engages  every  Body  to  him,  so  that 
when  he  is  pleasant  upon  any  of  them,  all  his  Family  are  in 
good  Humour,  and  none  so  much  as  the  Person  whom  he  diverts 
himself  with:  On  the  contrary,  if  he  coughs,  or  betrays  any 
Infirmity  of  old  Age,  it  is  easy  for  a  Stander-by  to  observe  a 
secret  Concern  in  the  Looks  of  all  his  Servants. 

My  worthy  Friend  has  put  me  under  the  particular  Care  of 
his  Butler,  who  is  a  very  prudent  Man,  and,  as  well  as  the  rest 
of  his  Fellow- Servants,  wonderfully  desirous  of  pleasing  me, 
because  they  have  often  heard  their  Master  talk  of  me  as  of  his 
particular  Friend. 

My  chief  Companion,  when  Sir  Roger  is  diverting  himself  in 
the  Woods  or  the  Fields,  is  a  very  venerable  man  who  is  ever 
with  Sir  Roger,  and  has  lived  at  his  House  in  the  Nature  of  a 


l64  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

Chaplain  above  thirty  Years.  This  Gentleman  is  a  Person  of 
good  Sense  and  some  Learning,  of  a  very  regular  Life  and 
obliging  Conversation:  He  heartily  loves  Sir  Roger,  and  knows 
that  he  is  very  much  in  the  old  Knight's  Esteem,  so  that  he  lives 
in  the  Family  rather  as  a  Relation  than  a  Dependent. 

I  have  observed  in  several  of  my  Papers,  that  my  Friend  Sir 
Roger,  amidst  all  his  good  Qualities,  is  something  of  an  Humour- 
ist; and  that  his  Virtues,  as  well  as  Imperfections,  are  as  it  were 
tinged  by  a  certain  Extravagance,  which  makes  them  particularly 
his,  and  distinguishes  them  from  those  of  other  Men.  This  Cast 
of  Mind,  as  it  is  generally  very  innocent  in  it  self,  so  it  renders 
his  Conversation  highly  agreeable,  and  more  delightful  than  the 
same  Degree  of  Sense  and  Virtue  would  appear  in  their  common 
and  ordinary  Colours.  As  I  was  walking  with  him  last  Night, 
he  asked  me  how  I  liked  the  good  Man  whom  I  have  just  now 
mentioned  ?  and  without  staying  for  my  Answer  told  me.  That  he 
was  afraid  of  being  insulted  with  Latin  and  Greek  at  his  own 
Table;  for  which  Reason  he  desired  a  particular  Friend  of  his  at 
the  University  to  find  him  out  a  Clergyman  rather  of  plain  Sense 
than  much  Learning,  of  a  good  Aspect,  a  clear  Voice,  a  sociable 
Temper,  and,  if  possible,  a  Man  that  understood  a  little  of  Back- 
Gammon.  My  Friend,  says  Sir  Roger,  found  me  out  this  Gentle- 
man, who,  besides  the  Endowments  required  of  him,  is,  they  tell 
me,  a  good  Scholar,  tho'  he  does  not  shew  it.  I  have  given  him 
the  Parsonage  of  the  Parish;  and  because  I  know  his  Value  have 
settled  upon  him  a  good  Annuity  for  Life.  If  he  outlives  me,  he 
shall  find  that  he  was  higher  in  my  Esteem  than  perhaps  he 
thinks  he  is.  He  has  now  been  with  me  thirty  Years;  and  tho' 
he  does  not  know  I  have  taken  Notice  of  it,  has  never  in  all  that 
time  asked  anything  of  me  for  himself,  tho'  he  is  every  Day 
soliciting  me  for  something  in  behalf  of  one  or  other  of  my 
Tenants  his  Parishioners.  There  has  not  been  a  Law-suit  in  the 
Parish  since  he  has  liv'd  among  them:  If  any  Dispute  arises  they 
apply  themselves  to  him  for  the  Decision,-  if  they  do  not  acquiesce 
in  his  Judgment,  which  I  think  never  happened  above  once  or 
twice  at  most,  they  appeal  to  me.  At  his  first  settling  with  me, 
I  made  him  a  Present  of  all  the  good  Sermons  which  have  been 
printed  in  English,  and  only  begg'd  of  him  that  every  Sunday  he 
would  pronounce  one  of  them  in  the  Pulpit.  Accordingly,  he  has 
digested  them  into  such  a  Series,  that  they  follow  one  another 
naturally,  and  make  a  continued  System  of  practical  Divinity. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  igj 

As  Sii  Roger  was  going-  on  in  his  Story,  the  Gentleman  we 
were  talking  of  came  up  to  us;  and  upon  the  Knight's  asking 
him  who  preached  to  morrow  (for  it  was  Saturday  Night)  told 
us,  the  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph  in  the  Morning,  and  Dr.  South  in 
the  Afternoon.  He  then  shewed  us  his  List  of  Preachers  for  the 
whole  Year,  where  I  saw  with  a  great  deal  of  Pleasure  Arch- 
bishop Tillotson,  Bishop  Saunderson,  Doctor  Barrow,  Doctor 
Calamy,  with  several  living  Authors  who  have  published  Dis- 
courses of  Practical  Divinity.  I  no  sooner  saw  this  venerable 
Man  in  the  Pulpit,  but  I  very  much  approved  of  my  Friend's 
insisting  upon  the  Qualifications  of  a  good  Aspect  and  a  clear 
Voice;  for  I  was  so  charmed  with  the  Gracefulness  of  his  Figure 
and  Delivery,  as  well  as  with  the  Discourses  he  pronounced,  that 
I  think  I  never  passed  any  Time  more  to  my  Satisfaction.  A 
Sermon  repeated  after  this  Manner,  is  like  the  Composition  of  a 
Poet  in  the  Mouth  of  a  graceful  Actor. 

I  could  heartily  wish  that  more  of  our  Country  Clergy  would 
follow  this  Example;  and  in  stead  of  wasting  their  Spirits  in  labo- 
rious Compositions  of  their  own,  would  endeavour  after  a  hand- 
some Elocution,  and  all  those  other  Talents  that  are  proper  to 
c  enforce  what  has  been  penned  by  greater  Masters.  This  would 
not  only  be  more  easy  to  themselves,  but  more  edifying  to  the 
People 

THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN  LIFE 
<The  Vision  of  Mirzah,*  from  the  Spectator,  No.  159 

WHEN  I  was  at  Gratid  Cairo,  I  picked  up  several  Oriental 
Manuscripts,  which  I  have  still  by  me.  Among  others  I 
met  with  one  entitled.  The  Visions  of.  Mirzah,  which  I 
have  read  over  with  great  Pleasure.  I  intend  to  give  it  to  the 
Publick  when  I  have  no  other  entertainment  for  them;  and  shall 
begin  with  the  first  Vision,  which  I  have  translated  Word  for 
Word  as  follows. 

**On  the  fifth  Day  of  the  Moon,  which  according  to  the  Cus- 
tom of  my  Forefathers  I  always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed 
my  self,  and  offered  up  my  Morning  Devotions,  I  ascended  the 
high  hills  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  Day  in 
Meditation  and  Prayer.  As  I  was  here  airing  my  self  on  the 
Tops  of  the  Mountains,  I  fell  into  a  profound  Contemplation  on 
the  Vanity  of  human   Life;   and   passing  from   one   Thought    to 


1 66  \  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

another,  Surely,  said  I,  Man  is  but  a  Shadow  and  Life  a  Dream. 
Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast  my  eyes  towards  the  Summit  of 
a  Rock  that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  I  discovered  one  in  the 
Habit  of  a  Shepherd,  with  a  little  Musical  Instrument  in  his 
Hand.  As  I  looked  upon  him  he  applied  it  to  his  Lips,  and  be- 
gan to  play  upon  it.  The  sound  of  it  was  exceeding  sweet,  and 
wrought  into  a  Variety  of  Tunes  that  were  inexpressibly  melodi- 
ous, and  altogether  different  from  any  thing  I  had  ever  heard: 
They  put  me  in  mind  of  those  heavenly  Airs  that  are  played  to 
the  departed  Souls  of  good  Men  upon  their  first  Arrival  in  Para- 
dise, to  wear  out  the  Impressions  of  the  last  Agonies,  and 
qualify  them  for  the  Pleasures  of  that  happy  Place.  My  Heart 
melted  away  in  secret  Raptures. 

I  had  been  often  told  that  the  Rock  before  me  was  the 
Haunt  of  a  Genius;  and  that  several  had  been  entertained  with 
Musick  who  had  passed  by  it,  but  never  heard  that  the  Musi- 
cian had  before  made  himself  visible.  When  he  had  raised  my 
Thoughts  by  those  transporting  Airs  which  he  played,  to  taste 
the  Pleasures  of  his  Conversation,  as  I  looked  upon  him  like  one 
astonished,  he  beckoned  to  me,  and  by  the  waving  of  his  Hand 
directed  me  to  approach  the  Place  where  he  sat.  I  drew  near 
with  that  Reverence  which  is  due  to  a  superior  Nature;  and  as 
my  heart  was  entirely  subdued  by  the .  captivating  Strains  I 
heard,  I  fell  down  at  his  Feet  and  wept.  The  Genius  smiled 
apon  me  with  a  Look  of  Compassion  and  Affability  that  famil- 
iarized him  to  my  Imagination,  and  at  once  dispelled  all  the 
Fears  and  Apprehensions  with  which  I  approached  him.  He 
lifted  me  from  the  Ground,  and  taking  me  by  the  hand,  Mirzah^ 
said  he,   I  have  heard  thee  in  thy  Soliloquies;   follow  me. 

He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  Pinnacle  of  the  Rock,  and 
placing  me  on  the  Top  of  it.  Cast  thy  Eyes  Eastward,  said  he, 
and  tell  me  what  thou  seest.  I  see,  said  I,  a  huge  Valley,  and  a 
prodigious  Tide  of  Water  rolling  through  it.  The  Valley  that 
thou  seest,  said  he,  is  the  Vale  of  Misery,  and  the  Tide  of 
Water  that  thou  seest  is  part  of  the  great  Tide  of  Eternity. 
What  is  the  Reason,  said  I,  that  the  Tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a 
thick  Mist  at  one  End,  and  again  loses  itself  in  a  thick  Mist  at 
the  other  ?  What  thou  seest,  said  he,  is  that  Portion  of  Eternity 
which  is  called  Time,  measured  out  by  the  Sun,  and  reaching 
from  the  Beginning  of  the  World  to  its  Consummation.  Examine 
now,    said  he,    this   Sea   that  is  bounded  with    darkness  at  both 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  167 

Ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  discoverest  in  it.  I  see  a  Bridge, 
said  I,  standing  in  the  Midst  of  the  Tide.  The  Bridge  thou 
seest,  said  he,  is  human  Life,  consider  it  attentively.  Upon  a 
more  leisurely  Survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it  consisted  of  three- 
score and  ten  entire  Arches,  with  several  broken  Arches,  which 
added  to  those  that  were  entire,  made  up  the  Number  about  an 
hundred.  As  I  was  counting  the  Arches,  the  Genius  told  me 
that  this  Bridge  consisted  at  first  of  a  thousand  Arches;  but  that 
a  great  Flood  swept  away  the  rest,  and  left  the  Bridge  in  the 
ruinous  Condition  I  now  beheld  it:  But  tell  me  further,  said  he, 
what  thou  discoverest  on  it.  I  see  Multitudes  of  People  passing 
over  it,  said  I,  and  a  black  Cloud  hanging  on  each  End  of  it. 
As  I  looked  more  attentively,  I  saw  several  of  the  Passengers 
dropping  thro'  the  Bridge,  into  the  great  Tide  that  flowed  under- 
neath it;  and  upon  farther  Examination,  perceived  there  were 
innumerable  Trap-doors  that  lay  concealed  in  the  Bridge,  which 
the  Passengers  no  sooner  trod  upon,  but  they  fell  thro'  them  into 
the  Tide  and  immediately  disappeared.  These  hidden  Pit-falls 
were  set  very  thick  at  the  Entrance  of  the  Bridge,  so  that  the 
Throngs  of  People  no  sooner  broke  through  the  Cloud,  but  many 
of  them  fell  into  them.  They  grew  thinner  towards  the  Middle, 
but  multiplied  and  lay  closer  together  toward  the  End  of  the 
Arches  that  were  entire.  There  were  indeed  some  Persons,  but 
their  number  was  very  small,  that  continued  a  kind  of  a  hobbling 
March  on  the  broken  Arches,  but  fell  through  one  after  another, 
being   quite  tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  Walk. 

I  passed  some  Time  in  the  Contemplation  of  this  wonderful 
Structure,  and  the  great  Variety  of  Objects  which  it  presented. 
My  heart  was  filled  with  a  deep  Melancholy  to  see  several  drop- 
ping unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  Mirth  and  Jollity,  and  catching 
at  every  thing  that  stood  by  them  to  save  themselves.  Some 
were  looking  up  towards  the  Heavens  in  a  thoughtful  Posture, 
and  in  the  midst  of  a  Speculation  stumbled  and  fell  out  of  Sight. 
Multitudes  were  very  busy  in  the  Pursuit  of  Bubbles  that  glit- 
tered in  their  Eyes  and  danced  before  them;  but  often  when  they 
thought  themselves  within  the  reach  of  them  their  Footing  failed 
and  down  they  sunk.  In  this  Confusion  of  Objects,  I  observed 
some  with  Scymetars  in  their  Hands,  and  others  with  Urinals, 
who  ran  to  and  fro  upon  the  Bridge,  thrusting  several  Persons 
on  Trap-doors  which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which 
they  might  have  escaped  had  they  not  been  forced  upon  them. 


l68  •  JOSEPH   ADDISON 

The  Genius  seeing  me  indulge  my  self  in  this  melancholy  Pros- 
pect, told  me  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  upon  it:  Take  thine  Eyes 
off  the  Bridge,  said  he,  and  tell  me  if  thou  yet  seest  any  thing 
thou  dost  not  comprehend.  Upon  looking  up,  What  mean,  said  I, 
those  great  Flights  of  Birds  that  are  perpetually  hovering  about 
the  Bridge,  and  settling  upon  it  from  time  to  time  ?  I  see  Vul- 
tures, Harpyes,  Ravens,  Cormorants,  and  among  many  other 
feather'd  Creatures  several  little  winged  Boys,  that  perch  in  great 
Numbers  upon  the  middle  Arches.  These,  said  the  Genius,  are 
Envy,  Avarice,  Superstition,  Despair,  Love,  with  the  like  Cares 
and  Passions  that  infest  human  Life. 

I  here  fetched  a  deep  Sigh,  Alas,  said  I,  Man  was  made  in 
vain!  How  is  he  given  away  to  Misery  and  Mortality!  tortured 
in  Life,  and  swallowed  up  in  Death!  The  Genius  being  moved 
with  Compassion  towards  me,  bid  me  quit  so  uncomfortable  a 
Prospect:  Look  no  more,  said  he,  on  Man  in  the  first  Stage  of  his 
Existence,  in  his  setting  out  for  Eternity;  but  cast  thine  Eye  on 
that  thick  Mist  into  which  the  Tide  bears  the  several  Generations 
of  Mortals  that  fall  into  it.  I  directed  my  Sight  as  I  was  ordered, 
and  (whether  or  no  the  good  Genius  strengthened  it  with  any 
supernatural  Force,  or  dissipated  Part  of  the  Mist  that  was  before 
too  thick  for  the  Eye  to  penetrate)  I  saw  the  Valley  opening  at 
the  farther  End,  and  spreading  forth  into  an  immense  Ocean, 
that  had  a  huge  Rock  of  Adamant  running  through  the  Midst 
of  it,  and  dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts.  The  Clouds  still 
rested  on  one  Half  of  it,  insomuch  that  I  could  discover  nothing 
in  it:  But  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  Ocean  planted  with 
innumerable  Islands,  that  were  covered  with  Fruits  and  Flowers, 
and  interwoven  with  a  thousand  little  shining  Seas  that  ran 
among  them.  I  could  see  Persons  dressed  in  glorious  Habits 
with  Garlands  upon  their  Heads,  passing  among  the  Trees,  lying 
down  by  the  Side  of  Fountains,  or  resting  on  Beds  of  Flowers; 
and  could  hear  a  confused  Harmony  of  singing  Birds,  falling 
Waters,  human  Voices,  and  musical  Instruments.  Gladness  grew 
in  me  upon  the  Discovery  of  so  delightful  a  Scene.  I  wished  for 
the  Wings  of  an  Eagle,  that  I  might  fly  away  to  those  happy 
Seats ;  but  the  Genius  told  me  there  was  no  Passage  to  them, 
except  through  the  Gates  of  Death  that  I  saw  opening  every 
Moment  upon  the  Bridge.  The  Islands,  said  he,  that  lie  so  fresh 
and  green  before  thee,  and  with  which  the  whole  Face  of  the 
OQ^ati   appears   spotted   as  far   as   thou   qanst   see,   are  more   io 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  igq 

number  than  the  Sands  on  the  Sea-shore;  there  are  Myriads  of 
Islands  behind  those  which  thou  here  discoverest,  reaching  further 
than  thine  Eye,  or  even  thine  Imagination  can  extend  it  self. 
These  are  the  Mansions  of  good  Men  after  Death,  who  according 
to  the  Degree  and  Kinds  of  Virtue  in  which  they  excelled,  are 
distributed  among  these  several  Islands,  which  abound  with 
Pleasures  of  different  Kinds  and  Degrees,  suitable  to  the  Relishes 
and  Perfections  of  those  who  are  settled  in  them;  every  Island  is 
a  Paradise  accommodated  to  its  respective  Inhabitants.  Are  not 
these,  O  Mirzah,  Habitations  worth  contending  for  ?  Does  Life 
^appear  miserable,  that  gives  thee  Opportunities  of  earning  such  a 
Reward  ?  Is  Death  to  be  feared,  that  will  convey  thee  to  so 
happy  an  Existence  ?  Think  not  Man  was  made  in  vain,  who 
has  such  an  Eternity  reserved  for  him.  I  gazed  with  inexpress- 
ible Pleasure  on  these  happy  Islands.  At  length,  said  I,  shew  me 
now,  I  beseech  thee,  the  Secrets  that  lie  hid  under  those  dark 
Clouds  which  cover  the  Ocean  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rock  of 
Adamant.  The  Genius  making  me  no  Answer,  I  turned  about  to 
address  myself  to  him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had 
left  me;  I  then  turned  again  to  the  Vision  which  I  had  been  so 
long  contemplating;  but  Instead  of  the  rolling  Tide,  the  arched 
Bridge,  and  the  happy  Islands,  I  saw  nothing  but  the  long  hollow 
Valley  of  Bagdat,  with  Oxen,  Sheep,  and  Camels  grazing  upon 
the  Sides  of  it. 

AN    ESSAY   ON   FANS 
From  the  Spectator,  No.  102 

I  DO  not  know  whether  to  call  the  following  Letter  a  Satyr  upon 
Coquets,  or  a  Representation  of  their  several  fantastical  Accom- 
plishments, or  what  other  Title  to  give  it;   but  as  it  is  I  shall 
communicate  it  to  the  Publick.     It  will  sufficiently  explain  its  own 
Intentions,  so  that  I  shall  give  it  my  Reader  at  Length,  without 
either  Preface  or  Postscript. 

Mr.  Spectator: 

"Women  are  armed  with  Fans  as  Men  with  Swords,  and  some- 
times do  more  Execution  with  them.  To  the  end  therefore  that 
Ladies  may  be  entire  Mistresses  of  the  Weapon  which  they  bear, 
I  have  erected  an  Academy  for  the  training  up  of  young  Women 
in  the  Exercise  of  the  Fan,  according  to  the  most  fashionable  Airs 
and   Motions  that  are   now  practis'd  at  Court.      The    Ladies  whQ 


lyo  '.  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

carry  Fans  under  me  are  drawn  up  twice  a-day  in  my  great 
Hall,  where  they  are  instructed  in  the  Use  of  their  Arms,  and 
exercised  by  the  following  Words  of  Command, 


Handle  your  Fans, 
Unfurl  your  Fans, 
Discharge  your  Fans, 
Ground  your  Fans, 
Recover  your  Fans, 
Flutter  your  Fans. 


By  the  right  Observation  of  these  few  plain  Words  of  Command, 
a  Woman  of  a  tolerable  Genius,  who  will  apply  herself  diligently 
to  her  Exercise  for  the  Space  of  but  one  half  Year,  shall  be  able 
to  give  her  Fan  all  the  Graces  that  can  possibly  enter  into  that 
little  modish  Machine. 

But  to  the  end  that  my  Readers  may  form  to  themselves  a 
right  Notion  of  this  Exercise,  I  beg  leave  to  explain  it  to  them 
in  all  its  Parts.  When  my  Female  Regiment  is  drawn  up  in 
Array,  with  every  one  her  Weapon  in  her  Hand,  upon  my  giving 
the  Word  to  handle  their  Fans,  each  of  them  shakes  her  Fan  at 
me  with  a  Smile,  then  gives  her  Right-hand  Woman  a  Tap  upon 
the  Shoulder,  then  presses  her  Lips  with  the  Extremity  of  her 
Fan,  then  lets  her  Arms  fall  in  an  easy  Motion,  and  stands  in  a 
Readiness  to  receive  the  next  Word  of  Command.  All  this  is 
done  with  a  close  Fan,  and  is  generally  learned  in  the  first  Week. 

The  next  Motion  is  that  of  unfurling  the  Fan,  in  which  are 
comprehended  several  little  Flirts  and  Vibrations,  as  also  gradual 
and  deliberate  Openings,  with  many  voluntary  Fallings  asunder  in 
the  Fan  itself,  that  are  seldom  learned  under  a  Month's  Practice. 
This  part  of  the  Exercise  pleases  the  Spectators  more  than  any 
other,  as  it  discovers  on  a  sudden  an  infinite  Number  of  Cupids, 
[Garlands,]  Altars,  Birds,  Beasts,  Rainbows,  and  the  like  agre- 
able  Figures,  that  display  themselves  to  View,  whilst  every  one  in 
the  Regiment  holds  a  Picture  in  her  Hand. 

Upon  my  giving  the  Word  to  discharge  their  Fans,  they  give 
one  general  Crack  that  may  be  heard  at  a  considerable  distance 
when  the  Wind  sits  fair.  This  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  parts 
of  the  Exercise;  but  I  have  several  ladies  with  me  who  at  their 
first  Entrance  could  not  give  a  Pop  loud  enough  to  be  heard  at 
the  further  end  of  a  Room,  who  can  now  discharge  a  Fan  in  such 
a  manner  that  it  shall  make  a  Report  like  a  Pocket- Pistol.     I  have 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  lyj 

likewise  taken  care  (in  order  to  hinder  young  Women  from  letting 
off  their  Fans  in  wrong  Places  or  unsuitable  Occasions)  to  shew 
upon  what  Subject  the  Crack  of  a  Fan  may  come  in  properly:  1 
have  likewise  invented  a  Fan,  with  which  a  Girl  of  Sixteen,  by 
the  help  of  a  little  Wind  which  is  inclosed  about  one  of  the  largest 
Sticks,  can  make  as  loud  a  Crack  as  a  Woman  of  Fifty  with  an 
ordinary  Fan. 

When  the  Fans  are  thus  discharged,  the  Word  of  Command  in 
course  is  to  ground  their  Fans.  This  teaches  a  Lady  to  quit  her 
Fan  gracefully,  when  she  throws  it  aside  in  order  to  take  up  a 
Pack  of  Cards,  adjust  a  Curl  of  Hair,  replace  a  falling  Pin,  or 
apply  her  self  to  any  other  Matter  of  Importance.  This  Part  of 
the  Exercise,  as  it  only  consists  in  tossing  a  Fan  with  an  Air 
upon  a  long  Table  (which  stands  by  for  that  Purpose)  may  be 
learned  in  two  Days  Time  as  well  as  in  a  Twelvemonth. 

When  my  Female  Regiment  is  thus  disarmed,  I  generally  let 
them  walk  about  the  Room  for  some  Time;  when  on  a  sudden 
(like  Ladies  that  look  upon  their  Watches  after  a  long  Visit)  they 
all  of  them  hasten  to  their  Arms,  catch  them  up  in  a  Hurry,  and 
place  themselves  in  their  proper  Stations  upon  my  calling  out 
Recover  your  Fans.  This  Part  of  the  Exercise  is  not  difi&cult, 
provided  a  Woman  applies  her  Thoughts  to  it. 

The  Fluttering  of  the  Fan  is  the  last,  and  indeed  the  Master- 
piece of  the  whole  Exercise;  but  if  a  Lady  does  not  mis-spend  her 
Time,  she  may  make  herself  Mistress  of  it  in  three  Months.  I 
generally  lay  aside  the  Dog-days  and  the  hot  Time  of  the  Sum- 
mer for  the  teaching  this  Part  of  the  Exercise;  for  as  soon  as 
ever  I  pronounce  Flutter  your  Fans,  the  Place  is  fill'd  with  so 
many  Zephyrs  and  gentle  Breezes  as  are  very  refreshing  in  that 
Season  of  the  Year,  tho'  they  might  be  dangerous  to  Ladies  of  a 
tender  Constitution  in  any  other. 

There  is  an  infinite  variety  of  Motions  to  be  made  use  of  in 
the  Flutter  of  a  Fan.  There  is  an  Angry  Flutter,  the  modest 
Flutter,  the  timorous  Flutter,  the  confused  Flutter,  the  merry 
Flutter,  and  the  amorous  Flutter.  Not  to  be  tedious,  there  is 
scarce  any  Emotion  in  the  Mind  which  does  not  produce  a  suit- 
able Agitation  in  the  Fan;  insomuch,  that  if  I  only  see  the  Fan 
of  a  disciplin'd  Lady,  I  know  very  well  whether  she  laughs, 
frowns,  or  blushes.  I  have  seen  a  Fan  so  very  Angry,  that  it 
would  have  been  dangerous  for  the  absent  Lover  who  provoked 
it  to  have   come  within  the  Wind  of  it;   and  at  other  times  so 


1^2  JOSEPH  ADDISON 

very  languishing,  that  I  have  been  glad  for  the  Lady's  sake  the 
Lover  was  at  a  sufficient  Distance  from  it.  I  need  not  add,  that  a 
Fan  is  either  a  Piaide  or  Coquet  according  to  the  Nature  of  the 
Person  who  bears  it.  To  conclude  my  Letter,  I  must  acquaint 
you  that  I  have  from  my  own  Observations  compiled  a  little  Trea- 
tise for  the  use  of  my  Scholars,  entitled  The  Passions  of  the  Fan; 
which  I  will  communicate  to  you,  if  you  think  it  may  be  of  use 
to  the  Publick.  I  shall  have  a  general  Review  on  Thursday 
next;  to  which  you  shall  be  very  welcome  if  you  will  honour  it 
with  your  Presence.  /  atn^  &c. 

P.  S.  I  teach  young  Gentlemen  the  whole  Art  of  Gallanting 
a  Fan. 

A^.  B.  I  have  several  little  plain  Fans  made  for  this  Use,  to 
avoid  Expence.  L. 

HYMN 

From  the  Spectator,  No.  465 

THE  Spacious  Firmament  on  high 
With  all  the  blue  Etherial  Sky, 
And  Spangled  Heav'ns,  a  Shining  Frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim: 
Th*  unwearied  Sun,  from  Day  to  Day, 
Does  his  Creator's  Pow'r  display. 
And  publishes  to  every  Land 
The  Work  of  an  Almighty  Hand. 

Soon  as  the  Evening  Shades  prevail. 
The  Moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  Tale, 
And  nightly  to  the  list'ning  Earth, 
Repeats  the  Story  of  her  Birth: 
While  all  the  Stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  Planets  in  their  Turn, 
Confirm  the  Tidings  as  they  rowl, 
And  spread  the  Truth  from  Pole  to  Pole, 

What  though,  in  solemn  Silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  Ball } 
What  tho'  nor  real  Voice  nor  Sound 
Amid  their  radiant  Orbs  be  found  ? 
In  Reason's  Ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  Voice, 
For  ever  singing,  as  they  shine, 
"The  Hand  that  made  u§  is  Divine.» 


173 


y^LIANUS   CLAUDIUS 

(Second  Century  A.  D.) 

JccoRDiNG  to  his  ^Varia  Historia,^  ^lianus  Claudius  was  a 
native  of  Praeneste  and  a  citizen  of  Rome,  at  the  time  of 
the  emperor  Hadrian.  He  taught  Greek  rhetoric  at  Rome, 
and  hence  was  known  as  <<the  Sophist.^*  He  spoke  and  wrote  Greek 
with  the  fluency  and  ease  of  a  native  Athenian,  and  gained  thereby 
the  epithet  of  "the  honey-tongued.'^  He  lived  to  be  sixty  years  of 
age,  and  never  married  because  he  would  not  incur  the  responsi- 
bility of  children. 

The  ^Varia  Historia*  is  the  most  noteworthy  of  his  works.  It  is 
a  curious  and  interesting  collection  of  short  narratives,  anecdotes, 
and  other  historical,  biographical,  and  antiquarian  matter,  selected 
from  the  Greek  authors  whom  he  said  he  loved  to  study.  And  it 
is  valuable  because  it  preserves  scraps  of  works  now  lost.  The 
extracts  are  either  in  the  words  of  the  original,  or  give  the  com- 
piler's version;  for,  as  he  says,  he  liked  to  have  his  own  way  and 
to  follow  his  own  taste.  They  are  grouped  without  method;  but  in 
this  very  lack  of  order  —  which  shows  that  "browsing'*  instinct  which 
Charles  Lamb  declared  to  be  essential  to  a  right  feeling  for  liter- 
ature—  the  charm  of  the  book  lies.  This  habit  of  straying,  and  his 
lack  of  style,  prove  ^lianus  more  of  a  vagabond  in  the  domain  of 
letters  than  a  rhetorician. 

His  other  important  book,  <De  Animalium  Natura*  (On  the  Nature 
of  Animals),  is  a  medley  of  his  own  observations,  both  in  Italy  and 
during  his  travels  as  far  as  Egypt.  For  several  hundred  years  it 
was  a  popular  and  standard  book  on  zoology;  and  even  as  late  as  the 
fourteenth  century,  Manuel  Philes,  a  Byzantine  poet,  founded  upon  it 
a  poem  on  animals.  Like  the  <Varia  Historia,*  it  is  scrappy  and 
gossiping.  He  leaps  from  subject  to  subject:  from  elephants  to 
dragons,  from  the  liver  of  mice  to  the  uses  of  oxen.  There  was, 
however,  method  in  this  disorder;  for  as  he  says,  he  sought  thereby 
to  give  variety  and  hold  his  reader's  attention.  The  book  is  inter- 
esting, moreover,  as  giving  us  a  personal  glimpse  of  the  man  and  of 
his  methods  of  work ;  for  in  a  concluding  chapter  he  states  the  gen- 
eral principle  on  which  he  composed:  that  he  has  spent  great  labor, 
thought,  and  care  in  writing  it;  that  he  has  preferred  the  pursuit  of 
knowledge  to  the  pursuit  of  wealth;  that  for  his  part,  he  found  more 
pleasure  in  observing  the  habits  of  the  lion,  the  panther,  and  the 
fox,  in  listening  to  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  and  in  studying  the 


J ^4  ^LIANUS   CLAUDIUS 

migrations  of  cranes,  than  in  mere  heaping  up  of  riches  and  finding 
himself  numbered  among  the  great;  and  that  throughout  his  work 
he  has  sought  to  adhere  to  the  truth. 

jElianus  was  more  of  a  moralizer  than  an  artist  in  words;  his 
style  has  no  distinctive  literary  qualities,  and  in  both  of  his  chief 
works  is  the  evident  intention  to  set  forth  religious  and  moral  prin- 
ciples. He  wrote,  moreover,  some  treatises  expressly  on  religious 
and  philosophic  subjects,  and  some  letters  on  husbandry. 

The  *Varia  Historia*  has  been  twice  translated  into  English:  by 
Abraham  Fleming  in  1576,  and  by  Thomas  Stanley,  son  of  the  poet 
and  philosopher  Stanley,  in  1665.  Fleming  was  a  poet  and  scholar 
of  the  English  Renaissance,  who  translated  from  the  ancients,  and 
made  a  digest  of  Holinshed's  < Historic  of  England.*  His  version  of 
.^lianus  loses  nothing  by  its  quaint  wording,  as  will  be  seen  from 
the  subjoined  stories.  The  full  title  of  the  book  is  *A  Registre  of 
Hystories  containing  martiall  Exploits  of  worthy  Warriours,  poli- 
tique Practices  and  civil  Magistrates,  wise  Sentences  of  famous 
Philosophers,  and  other  Matters  manifolde  and  memorable  written  in 
Greek  by  ^lianus  Claudius  and  delivered  in  English  by  Abraham 
Fleming*  (1576). 


[All  the  selections  following  are  from  <A  Registre  of  Hystories  >] 

OF  CERTAIN   NOTABLE  MEN    THAT  MADE   THEMSELVES  PLAY- 
FELLOWES  WITH   CHILDREN 

HERCULES  (as  some  say)  assuaged  the  tediousness  of  his  labors, 
which  he  sustayned  in  open  and  common  games,  with  play- 
ing. This  Hercules,  I  say,  being  an  incomparable  warriour, 
and  the  sonne  of  Jupiter  and  Latona,  made  himselfe  a  playfellowe 
with  boys.  Euripides  the  poet  introduceth,  and  bringeth  in, 
the  selfe  same  god  speaking  in  his  owne  person,  and  saying,  *  I 
play  because  choyce  and  chaunge  of  labors  is  delectable  and 
sweete  unto  me,**  whiche  wordes  he  uttered  holdinge  a  boy  by 
the  hande.  Socrates  also  was  espied  of  Alcibiades  upon  a  time, 
playing  with  Lamprocles,  who  was  in  manner  but  a  childe. 
Agesilaus  riding  upon  a  rude,  or  cock-horse  as  they  terme  it, 
played  with  his  sonne  beeing  but  a  boy:  and  when  a  certayn  man 
passing  by  sawe  him  so  doe  and  laughed  there  withall,  Agesilaus 
sayde  thus.  Now  hold  thy  peace  and  say  nothing;  but  when  thou 
art  a  father  I  doubt  not  thou  wilt  doe  as  fathers  should  doe  with 
their  children.     Architas   Tarentinus  being  both   in  authoritie  in 


^LIANUS  CLAODIUS 


175 


the  commonwealth,  that  is  to  say  a  magestrat,  and  also  a  philoso- 
pher, not  of  the  obscurest  sorte,  but  a  precise  lover  of  wisdom, 
at  that  time  he  was  a  housband,  a  housekeeper,  and  maintained 
many  servauntes,  he  was  greatly  delighted  with  their  younglinges, 
used  to  play  oftentimes  with  his  servauntes'  children,  and  was 
wonte,  when  he  was  at  dinner  and  supper,  to  rejoyce  in  the  sight 
and  presence  of  them:  yet  was  Tarentinus  (as  all  men  knowe)  a 
man  of  famous  memorie  and  noble  name. 

OF    A    CERTAINE    SICILIAN    WHOSE    EYSIGHT    WAS   WOONDER- 
FULL  SHARPE  AND  QUICK 

THERE  was  in  Sicilia  a  certaine  man  indued  with  such  sharp- 
nesse,  quicknesse,  and  cleamesse  of  sight  (if  report  may 
challenge  credite)  that  hee  coulde  see  from  Lilybaeus  to 
Carthage  with  such  perfection  and  constancy  that  his  eies  coulde 
not  be  deceived:  and  that  he  tooke  true  and  just  account  of  all 
ships  and  vessels  which  went  under  sayle  from  Carthage,  over- 
skipping  not  so  much  as  one  in  the  universall  number. 

Something  straunge  it  is  that  is  recorded  of  Argus,  a  man 
that  had  no  lesse  than  an  hundred  eyes,  unto  whose  custody  Juno 
committed  lo,  the  daughter  of  Inachus,  being  transformed  into  a 
young  heifer:  while  Argus  (his  luck  being  such)  was  slaine  sleep- 
ing, but  the  Goddess  Juno  so  provided  that  all  his  eyes  (whatso- 
ever became  of  his  carkasse)  should  be  placed  on  the  pecock's 
taile;  wherupon  (sithence  it  came  to  passe)  the  pecock  is  called 
Avis  Junonia,  or  Lady  Juno  Birde.  This  historic  is  notable,  but 
yet  the  former  (in  mine  opinion)  is  more  memorable. 

THE  LAWE   OF  THE  LACEDEMONIANS    AGAINST  COVETOUS- 

NESS 

A  CERTAIN  young  man  of  Lacedsemonia  having  bought  a  plot 
of  land  for  a  small  and  easy  price  (and,  as  they  say,  dogge 
cheape)  was  arrested  to  appear  before  the  magistrates,  and 
after  the  trial  of  his  matter  he  was  charged  with  a  penalty.  The 
reason  why  hee  was  judged  worthy  this  punishment  was  because 
he  being  but  a  young  man  gaped  so  gredely  after  gain  and 
yawned  after  filthy  covetousness.  For  yt  was  a  most  commend- 
able thing  among  the  Lacedaemonians  not  only  to  fighte  against 
the  enemie  in  battell  manfully;  but  also  to  wrestle  and  struggle 
with  covetousness  (that  misschievous  monster)  valliauntly. 


176 


^LIANtfS  CLAtriDlUS 


THAT   SLEEP   IS   THE    BROTHER   OF    DEATH,   AND   OF   GORGIAS 
DRAWING   TO   HIS   END 

GORGIAS  Leontinus  looking  towardes  the  end  of  his  life  and 
beeing  wasted  with  the  weaknes  and  wearysomenesse  of 
drooping  olde  age,  faUing  into  sharp  and  sore  sicknesse 
upon  a  time  slumbered  and  slept  upon  his  soft  pillowe  a  little  sea- 
son. Unto  whose  chamber  a  familiar  freend  of  his  resorting  to 
visit  him  in  his  sicknes  demaunded  how  he  felt  himself  affected  in 
body.  To  whom  Gorgias  Leontinus  made  this  pithy  and  plaus- 
ible answeer,  "  Now  Sleep  beginneth  to  deliver  me  up  into  the 
jurisdiction  of  his  brother-germane,   Death.** 


OF  THE  VOLUNTARY  AND  WILLING  DEATH  OF  CALANUS 

THE  ende  of  Calanus  deserveth  no  lesse  commendation  than  it 
procureth  admiration;  it  is  no  less  praiseworthy  than  it  was 
worthy  wonder.  The  manner,  therefore,  was  thus.  The 
within-named  Calanus,  being  a  sophister  of  India,  when  he  had 
taken  his  long  leave  and  last  farewell  of  Alexander,  King  of 
Macedonia,  and  of  nis  life  in  lyke  manner,  being  willing,  desirous, 
and  earnest  to  set  himselfe  at  lybertie  from  the  cloggs,  chaines, 
barres,  boults,  and  fetters  of  the  prison  of  the  body,  pyled  up  a 
bonnefire  in  the  suburbs  of  Babylon  of  dry  woodde  and  chosen 
sticks  provided  of  purpose  to  give  a  sweete  savour  and  an 
odoriferous  smell  in  burning.  The  kindes  of  woodde  which  hee 
used  to  serve  his  tume  in  this  case  were  these:  Cedre,  Rose- 
mary, Cipres,  Mirtle,  and  Laurell.  These  things  duely  ordered, 
he  buckled  himselfe  to  his  accustomed  exercise,  namely,  running 
and  leaping  into  the  middest  of  the  wodstack  he  stoode  bolte 
upright,  having  about  his  head  a  garlande  made  of  the  greene 
leaves  of  reedes,  the  sunne  shining  full  in  his  face,  as  he  stoode 
in  the  pile  of  stycks,  whose  glorious  majesty,  glittering  with 
bright  beams  of  amiable  beuty,  he  adored  and  worshipped.  Fur- 
thermore he  gave  a  token  and  signe  to  the  Macedonians  to  kindle 
the  fire,  which,  when  they  had  done  accordingly,  hee  beeing  com- 
passed round  about  with  flickering  flames,  stoode  stoutly  and 
valiauntly  in  one  and  the  selfe  same  place,  and  dyd  not  shrincke 
one  foote,  until  hee  gave  up  the  ghost,  whereat  Alexander  un- 
vailyng,  as   at   a  rare   strange    sight   and   worldes   wonder,  saide 


^LIANUS  CLAUDIUS  177 

(as  the  voice  goes)  these  words :  — "  Calanus  hath  subdued,  over- 
come,  and  vanquished  stronger  enemies  than  I.  For  Alexander 
made  warre  against  Porus,  Taxiles,  and  Darius.  But  Calanus  did 
denounce  and  did  battell  to  labor  and  fought  fearcely  and  man- 
fully with  death. » 


OF    DELICATE    DINNERS.     SUMPTUOUS    SUPPERS,    AND    PRODI- 
\  GALL   BANQUETING 

TIMOTHY,  the  son  of  Conon,  captain  of  the  Athenians,  leaving 
his  sumptuous  fare  and  royall  banqueting,  beeing  desired 
and  intertained  of  Plato  to  a  feast  philosophicall,  seasoned 
with  contentation  and  musick,  at  his  returning  home  from  that 
supper  of  Plato,  he  said  unto  his  familiar  freends :  —  "  They  whiche 
suppe  with  Plato,  this  night,  are  not  sick  or  out  of  temper  the 
next  day  following  ;^^  and  presently  upon  the  enunciation  of  that 
speech,  Timothy  took  occasion  to  finde  fault  with  great  dinners, 
suppers,  feasts,  and  banquets,  furnished  with  excessive  fare,  im- 
moderate consuming  of  meats,  delicates,  dainties,  toothsome  jun- 
kets, and  such  like,  which  abridge  the  next  dayes  joy,  gladnes, 
delight,  mirth,  and  pleasantnes.  Yea,  that  sentence  is  consonant 
and  agreeable  to  the  former,  and  importeth  the  same  sense  not- 
withstanding in  words  it  hath  a  little  difference.  That  the  within 
named  Timothy  meeting  the  next  day  after  with  Plato  said  to 
him:  —  ^*You  philosophers,  freend  Plato,  sup  better  the  day  fol- 
lowing than  the  night  present.", 

OF    BESTOWING    TIME,    AND     HOW    WALKING    UP    AND    DOWNE 
WAS   NOT   ALLOWABLE    AMONG    THE    LACEDEMONIANS 

THE  Lacedaemonians  were  of  this  judgment,  that  measureable 
spending  of  time  was  greatly  to  be  esteemed,  and  therefore 
did  they  conforme  and  apply  themselves  to  any  kinde  of 
laboure  moste  earnestly  and  painfully,  not  withdrawing  their  hands 
from  works  of  much  bodyly  mooving,  not  permitting  any  particu- 
lar person,  beeing  a  citizen,  to  spend  the  time  in  idlenes,  to  waste 
it  in  unthrifty  gaming,  to  consume  it  in  trifling,  in  vain  toyes  and 
lewd  loytering,  all  whiche  are  at  variance  and  enmity  with  vertue. 
Of  this  latter  among  many  testimonyes,  take  this  for  one. 

When   it  was   reported   to   the   magistrates   of  the   Lacedaemo- 
nians called  Ephori,  in  manner  of  complaint,  that  the  inhabitants 
I— 12 


178  ".  ^LIANUS  CLAUDIUS 

of  Deceleia  used  afternoone  walkings,  they  sent  unto  them  mes- 
sengers with  their  commandmente,  saying :  —  ^^  Go  not  up  and 
doune  like  loyterers,  nor  walke  not  abrode  at  your  pleasure,  pam- 
pering the  wantonnes  of  your  natures  rather  than  accustoming 
yourself  to  exercises  of  activity.  For  it  becometh  the  Lacedaemo- 
nians to  regarde  their  health  and  to  maintaine  their  safety  not 
with  walking  to  and  fro,  but  with  bodily  labours.^* 


HOW    SOCRATES    SUPPRESSED    THE    PRYDE    AND     HAUTINESSE 

OF  ALCIBIADES 

SOCRATES,  seeing  Alcibiades  puft  up  with  pryde  and  broyling  in 
ambitious  behavioure  (because  possessor  of  such  great  wealth 
and  lorde  of  so  large  lands)  brought  him  to  a  place  where 
a  table  did  hang  containing  a  discription  of  the  worlde  universall. 
Then  did  Socrates  will  Alcibiades  to  seeke  out  the  situation  of 
Athens,  which  when  he  found  Socrates  proceeded  further  and 
willed  him  to  point  out  that  plot  of  ground  where  his  lands  and 
lordships  lay.  Alcibiades,  having  sought  a  long  time  and  yet 
never  the  nearer,  sayde  to  Socrates  that  his  livings  were  not  set 
forth  in  that  table,  nor  any  discription  of  his  possession  therein 
made  evident.  When  Socrates,  rebuked  with  this  secret  quip: 
**And  art  thou  so  arrogant  (sayeth  he)  and  so  hautie  in  heart  for 
that  which  is  no  parcell  of  the  world  ?  * 

OF    CERIAINE    WASTGOODES    AND    SPENDTHRIFTES 

PRODiGALL  lavishing  of  substance,  unthrifty  and  wastifull  spend- 
ing, voluptuousness  of  life  and  palpable  sensuality  brought 
Pericles,  Callias,  the  sonne  of  Hipponicus,  and  Nicias  not 
only  to  necessitie,  but  to  povertie  and  beggerie.  Who,  after  their 
money  waxed  scant,  and  turned  to  a  very  lowe  ebbe,  they  three 
drinking  a  poysoned  potion  one  to  another  (which  was  the  last 
cuppe  that  they  kissed  with  their  lippes)  passed  out  of  this  life 
(as  it  were  from  a  banquet)  to  the  powers  infemall. 


179 


/ESCHINES 

(389-314  B.  C.) 

Ihe  life  and  oratory  of  ^schines  fall  fittingly  into  that  period 
of  Greek  history  when  the  free  spirit  of  the  people  which 
had  created  the  arts  of  Pindar  and  Sophocles,  Pericles,  Phi- 
dias, and  Plato,  was  becoming  the  spirit  of  slaves  and  of  savans,  who 
sought  to  forget  the  freedom  of  their  fathers  in  learning,  luxury, 
and  the  formalism  of  deducers  of  rules.  To  this  slavery  ^schines 
himself  contributed,  both  in  action  with  Philip  of  Macedon  and  in 
speech.  Philip  had  entered  upon  a  career  of  conquest;  a  policy 
legitimate  in  itself  and  beneficial  as  judged  by 
its  larger  fruits,  but  ruinous  to  the  advanced 
civilization  existing  in  the  Greek  City-States 
below,  whose  high  culture  was  practically  con- 
fiscated to  spread  out  over  a  waste  of  semi- 
barbarism  and  mix  with  alien  cultures.  Among 
his  Greek  sympathizers,  ^schines  was  perhaps 
his  chief  support  in  the  conquest  of  the  Greek 
world  that  lay  to  the  south  within  his  reach. 

^schines  was  born  in  389  B.  C.,  six  years 
before  his  lifelong  rival  Demosthenes.  If  we 
may  trust  that  rival's  elaborate  details  of  his 
early  life,  his  father  taught  a  primary  school 
and  his  mother  was  overseer  of  certain  initia- 
tory rites,  to  both  of  which  occupations  uEschines  gave  his  youthful 
hand  and  assistance.  He  became  in  time  a  third-rate  actor,  and  the 
duties  of  clerk  or  scribe  presently  made  him  familiar  with  the  execu- 
tive and  legislative  affairs  of  Athens.  Both  vocations  served  as  an 
apprenticeship  to  the  public  speaking  toward  which  his  ambition  was 
turning.  We  hear  of  his  serving  as  a  heavy-armed  soldier  in  various 
Athenian  expeditions,  and  of  his  being  privileged  to  carry  to  Athens, 
in  349  B.  C,  the  first  news  of  the  victory  of  Tamynse,  in  Euboea,  in 
reward  for  the  bravery  he  had  shown  in  the  battle. 

Two  years  afterward  he  was  sent  as  an  envoy  into  the  Pelopon- 
nesus, with  the  object  of  forming  a  union  of  the  Greeks  against  Philip 
for  the  defense  of  their  liberties.  But  his  mission  was  unsuccessful. 
Toward  the  end  of  the  same  year  he  served  as  one  of  the  ten 
ambassadors  sent  to  Philip  to  discuss  terms  of  peace.  The  harangues 
of  the  Athenians  at  this  meeting  were  followed  in  1  turn  by  a  speech 
of  Philip,  whose  openness  of  manner,  pertinent  arguments,  and  pre- 
tended desire  for  a  settlement  led  to  a  second  embassy,  empowered 


-^SCHINES, 


jgo  .  ^SCHINES 

to  receive  from  him  the  oath  of  allegiance  and  peace.  It  was  dur- 
ing this  second  embassy  that  Demothenes  says  he  discovered  the 
philippizing  spirit  and  foul  play  of  ^schines.  Upon  their  return  to 
Athens,  -lEschines  rose  before  the  assembly  to  assure  the  people  that 
Philip  had  come  to  Thermopylae  as  the  friend  and  ally  of  Athens. 
"We,  your  envoys,  have  satisfied  him,'*  said  ^schines.  "You  will 
hear  of  benefits  still  more  direct  which  we  have  determined  Philip 
to  confer  upon  you,  but  which  it  would  not  be  prudent  as  yet  to 
specify.  '* 

But  the  alarm  of  the  Athenians  at  the  presence  of  Philip  within 
the  gates  was  not  allayed.  The  king,  however,  anxious  to  temporize 
with  them  until  he  could  receive  his  army  supplies  by  sea,  suborned 
^schines,  who  assured  his  countrymen  of  Philip's  peaceful  intentions. 
On  another  occasion,  by  an  inflammatory  speech  at  Delphi,  he  so 
played  upon  the  susceptibilities  of  the  rude  Amphictyones  that  they 
rushed  forth,  uprooted  their  neighbors'  harvest  fields,  and  began  a 
devastating  war  of  Greek  against  Greek.  Internal  dissensions  prom- 
ised the  shrewd  Macedonian  the  conquest  he  sought.  At  length,  in 
August,  338,  came  Philip's  victory  at  Chaeronea,  and  the  complete 
prostration  of  Greek  power,  ^schines,  who  had  hitherto  disclaimed 
all  connection  with  Philip,  now  boasted  of  his  intimacy  with  the 
king.  As  Philip's  friend,  while  yet  an  Athenian,  he  offered  himself 
as  ambassador  to  entreat  leniency  from  the  victor  toward  the  un- 
happy citizens. 

The  memorable  defense  of  Demosthenes  against  the  attack  of 
./Eschines  was  delivered  in  330  B.  C.  Seven  years  before  this,  Ctesi- 
phon  had  proposed  to  the  Senate  that  the  patriotic  devotion  and 
labors  of  Demosthenes  should  be  acknowledged  by  the  gift  of  a 
golden  crown  —  a  recognition  willingly  accorded.  But  as  this  decis- 
ion, to  be  legal,  must  be  confirmed  by  the  Assembly,  ^schines  gave 
notice  that  he  would  proceed  against  Ctesiphon  for  proposing  an 
unconstitutional  measure.  He  managed  to  postpone  action  on  the 
notice  for  six  years.  At  last  he  seized  a  moment  when  the  victo- 
ries of  Philip's  son  and  successor,  Alexander,  were  swaying  popular 
feeling,  to  deliver  a  bitter  harangue  against  the  whole  life  and  pol- 
icy of  his  political  opponent.  Demosthenes  answered  in  that  magnifi- 
cent oration  called  by  the  Latin  writers  <De  Corona.*  ^schines  was 
not  upheld  by  the  people's  vote.  He  retired  to  Asia,  and,  it  is  said, 
opened  a  school  of  rhetoric  at  Rhodes.  There  is  a  legend  that  after 
he  had  one  day  delivered  in  his  school  the  masterpiece  of  his  enemy, 
his  students  broke  into  applause:  "What,**  he  exclaimed,  "if  you 
had  heard  the  wild  beast  thunder  it  out  himself!** 

^schines  was  what  we  call  nowadays  a  self-made  man.  The  great 
faults  of  his  life,  his  philippizing  policy  and  his  confessed  corruption, 


^SCHINES  l8x 

arose,  doubtless,  from  the  results  of  youthful  poverty:  a  covetousness 
growing  out  of  want,  and  a  lack  of  principles  of  conduct  which  a 
broader  education  would  have  instilled.  As  an  orator  he  was  second 
only  to  Demosthenes;  and  while  he  may  at  times  be  compared  to 
his  rival  in  intellectual  force  and  persuasiveness,  his  moral  defects  — 
which  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  himself  acknowledged  —  make 
a  comparison  of  character  impossible. 

His  chief  works  remaining  to  us  are  the  speeches  *■  Against  Timar- 
chus,*  *  On  the  Embassy,'  <  Against  Ctesiphon,*  and  letters,  which  are 
included  in  the  edition  of  G.  E.  Benseler  (1855-60).  In  his  <  History  of 
Greece,*  Grote  discusses  at  length  —  of  course  adversely  —  the  influence 
of  ^schines;  especially  controverting  Mitford's  favorable  view  and 
his  denunciation  of  Demosthenes  and  the  patriotic  party.  The  trend 
of  recent  writing  is  toward  Mitford's  estimate  of  Philip's  policy, 
and  therefore  less  blame  for  the  Greek  statesmen  who  supported  it, 
though  without  Mitford's  virulence  toward  its  opponents.  Mahaffy 
( <  Greek  Life  and  Thought  > )  holds  the  whole  contest  over  the  crown 
to  be  mere  academic  threshing  of  old  straw,  the  fundamental  issues 
being  obsolete  by  the  rise  of  a  new  world  under  Alexander. 

A  DEFENSE  AND  AN  ATTACK 
From  the  <  Oration  against  Ctesiphon> 

IN  REGARD  to   the    calumnics   with   which  I   am    attacked,  I   wish 
to  say  a  word  or   two    before    Demosthenes   speaks.     He   will 

allege,  I  am  told,  that  the  State  has  received  distinguished 
services  from  him,  while  from  me  it  has  suffered  injury  on 
many  occasions;  and  that  the  deeds  of  Philip  and  Alexander, 
and  the  crimes  to  which  they  gave  rise,  are  to  be  imputed  to  me. 
Demosthenes  is  so  clever  in  the  art  of  speaking  that  he  does  not 
bring  accusation  against  me,  against  any  point  in  my  conduct  of 
affairs  or  any  counsels  I  may  have  brought  to  our  public  meet- 
ings; but  he  rather  casts  reflections  upon  my  private  life,  and 
charges  me  with  a  criminal  silence. 

Moreover,  in  order  that  no  circumstance  may  escape  his  cal- 
umny, he  attacks  my  habits  of  life  when  I  was  in  school  with  my 
young  companions;  and  even  in  the  introduction  of  his  speech 
he  will  say  that  I  have  begun  this  prosecution,  not  for  the  benefit 
of  the  State,  but  because  I  want  to  make  a  show  of  myself  to 
Alexander  and  gratify  Alexander's  resentment  against  him.  He 
purposes,  as  I  learn,  to  ask  why  I  blame  his  administration  as  a 
whole-  and  vet  never  hindered  or  indicted  any  one  separate  act' 


jg2  ^SCHINES 

why,  after  a  consideralDle  interval  of  attention  to  public  affairs, 
I  now  return  to  prosecute  this  action. 

But  what  I  am  now  about  to  notice  —  a  matter  which  I  hear 
Demosthenes  will  speak  of  —  about  this,  by  the  Olympian  deities, 
I  cannot  but  feel  a  righteous  indignation.  He  will  liken  my 
speech  to  the  Sirens',  it  seems,  and  the  legend  anent  their  art  is 
that  those  who  listen  to  them  are  not  charmed,  but  destroyed; 
wherefore  the  music  of  the  Sirens  is  not  in  good  repute.  Even 
so  he  will  aver  that  knowledge  of  my  words  and  myself  is  a 
source,  of  injury  to  those  who  listen  to  me.  I,  for  my  part,  think 
it  becomes  no  one  to  urge  such  allegations  against  me;  for  it  is 
a  shame  if  one  who  makes  charges  cannot  point  to  facts  as  full 
evidence.  And  if  such  charges  must  be  made,  the  making  surely 
does  not  become  Demosthenes,  but  rather  some  military  man  — 
some  man  of  action  —  who  has  done  good  work  for  the  State,  and 
who,  in  his  untried  speech,  vies  with  the  skill  of  antagonists 
because  he  is  conscious  that  he  can  tell  no  one  of  his  deeds,  and 
because  he  sees  his  accusers  able  to  show  his  audience  that  he 
had  done  what  in  fact  he  never  had  done.  But  when  a  man 
made  up  entirely  of  words, —  of  sharp  words  and  overwrought 
sentences, — when  he  takes  refuge  in  simplicity  and  plain  facts,  who 
then  can  endure  it?  —  whose  tongue  is  like  a  flute,  inasmuch  as  if 
you  take  it  away  the  rest  is  nothing.     .     .     . 

This  man  thinks  himself  worthy  of  a  crown  —  that  his  honoi 
should  be  proclaimed.  But  should  you  not  rather  send  into  exile 
this  common  pest  of  the  Greeks  ?  Or  will  you  not  seize  upon  him 
as  a  thief,  and  avenge  yourself  upon  him  whose  mouthings  have 
enabled  him  to  bear  full  sail  through  our  commonwealth?  Re- 
member the  season  in  which  you  cast  your  vote.  In  a  few  days 
the  Pythian  Games  will  come  round,  and  the  convention  of  the 
Hellenic  States  will  hold  its  sessions.  Our  State  has  been  con. 
cemed  on  account  of  the  measures  of  Demosthenes  regarding 
present  crises.  You  will  appear,  if  you  crown  him,  accessory  to 
those  who  broke  the  general  peace.  But  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
you  refuse  the  crown,  you  will  free  the  State  from  blame.  Do 
not  take  counsel  as  if  it  were  for  an  alien,  but  as  if  it  concerned, 
as  it  does,  the  private  interest  of  your  city;  and  do  not  dispense 
your  honors  carelessly,  but  with  judgment;  and  let  your  public 
gifts  be  the  distinctive  possession  of  men  most  worthy.  Not  only 
hear,  but  also  look  around  you  and  consider  who  are  the  men 
who  support  Demosthenes.      Are  they  his  fellow-hunters,   or  his 


^SCHINES  183 

associates  in  old  athletic  sports  ?  No,  by  Olympian  Zeus,  he  was 
never  engaged  in  hunting  the  wild  boar,  nor  in  care  for  the 
well-being  of  his  body;  but  he  was  toiling  at  the  art  of  those 
who  keep  up  possessions. 

Take  into  consideration  also  his  art  of  juggling,  when  he  says 
that  by  his  embassy  he  wrested  Byzantium  from  the  hands  of 
Philip,  and  that  his  eloquence  led  the  Acarnanians  to  revolt,  and 
struck  dumb  the  Thebans.  He  thinks,  forsooth,  that  you  have 
fallen  to  such  a  degree  of  weakness  that  he  can  persuade  you 
that  you  have  been  entertaining  Persuasion  herself  in  your  city, 
and  not  a  vile  slanderer.  And  when  at  the  conclusion  of  his 
argument  he  calls  upon  his  partners  in  bribe-taking,  then  fancy 
that  you  see  upon  these  steps,  from  which  I  now  address  you, 
the  benefactors  of  your  State  arrayed  against  the  insolence  of 
those  men.  Solon,  who  adorned  our  commonwealth  with  most 
noble  laws,  a  man  who  loved  wisdom,  a  worthy  legislator,  asking 
you  in  dignified  and  sober  manner,  as  became  his  character, 
not  to  follow  the  pleading  of  Demosthenes  rather  than  your 
oaths  and  laws.  Aristides,  who  assigned  to  the  Greeks  their 
tributes,  to  whose  daughters  after  he  had  died  the  people  gave 
portions — imagine  Aristides  complaining  bitterly  at  the  insult  to 
public  justice,  and  asking  if  you  are  not  ashamed  that  when  your 
fathers  banished  Arthurias  the  Zelian,  who  brought  gold  from 
the  Medes  (although  while  he  was  sojourning  in  the  city  and  a 
guest  of  the  people  of  Athens  they  were  scarce  restrained  from 
killing  him,  and  by  proclamation  forbade  him  the  city  and  any 
dominion  the  Athenians  had  power  over),  nevertheless  that  you 
are  going  to  crown  Demosthenes,  who  did  not  indeed  bring  gold 
from  the  Medes,  but  who  received  bribes  and  has  them  still  in 
his  possession.  And  Themistocles  and  those  who  died  at  Mara- 
thon and  at  Platsea,  and  the  very  graves  of  your  ancestors — 
will  they  not  cry  out  if  you  venture  to  grant  a  crown  to  one  who 
confesses  that  he  united  with  the  barbarians  against  the  Greeks  ? 

And  now,  O  earth  and  sun !  virtue  and  intelligence !  and  thou, 

0  genius  of  the  humanities,  who  teachest  us  to  judge  between 
the  noble  and  the  ignoble,  I  have  come  to  your  succor  and  I 
have  done.  If  I  have  made  my  pleading  with  dignity  and 
worthily,  as  I  looked  to  the  flagrant  wrong  which  called  it  forth, 

1  have  spoken  as  I  wished.  If  I  have  done  ill,  it  was  as  I  was 
able.  Do  you  weigh  well  my  words  and  all  that  is  left  unsaid, 
and  vote  in  accordance  with  justice  and  the  interests  of  the  city,' 


1 84 


y€SCHYLUS 

(B.C.   525-456) 
BY  JOHN   WILLIAMS  WHITE 

|he  mightiest  of  Greek  tragic  poets  was  the  son  of  Euphorion, 
an  Athenian  noble,  and  was  born  B.  C.  525.  When  he  was  a 
lad  of  eleven,  the  tyrant  Hipparchus  fell  in  a  public  street 
of  Athens  under  the  daggers  of  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton.  Later, 
-i^schylus  saw  the  family  of  tyrants,  which  for  fifty  years  had  ruled 
Attica  with  varying  fortunes,  banished  from  the  land.  With  a  boy's 
eager  interest  he  followed  the  establishment  of  the  Athenian  democ- 
racy by  Cleisthenes.      He  grew  to  manhood  in  stirring  times.      The 

new  State  was  engaged  in  war  with 
the  powerful  neighboring  island  of 
JEgma.;  on  the  eastern  horizon  was 
gathering  the  cloud  that  was  to  burst 
in  storm  at  Marathon,  ^schylus  was 
trained  in  that  early  school  of  Athe- 
nian gfreatness  whose  masters  were 
Miltiades,  Aristides,  and  Themistocles. 
During  the  struggle  with  Persia, 
fought  out  on  Greek  soil,  the  poet 
was  at  the  height  of  his  physical 
powers,  and  we  may  feel  confidence 
in  the  tradition  that  he  fought  not 
only  at  Marathon,  but  also  at  Sala- 
mis.  Two  of  his  extant  tragedies 
breathe  the  very  spirit  of  war,  and 
show  a  soldier's  experience;  and  the  epitaph  upon  his  tomb,  which 
was  said  to  have  been  written  by  himself,  recorded  how  he  had  been 
one  of  those  who  met  the  barbarians  in  the  first  shock  of  the  great 
struggle  and  had  helped  to  save  his  country. 

«How  brave  in  battle  was  Euphorion's  son, 
The  long-haired  Mede  can  tell  who  fell  at  Marathon. » 

Before  .^schylus,  Attic  tragedy  had  been  essentially  lyrical.  It 
arose  from  the  dithyrambic  chorus  that  was  sung  at  the  festivals  of 
Dionysus.  Thespis  had  introduced  the  first  actor,  who,  in  the  pauses 
of  the  choral  song,  related  in  monologue  the  adventures  of  the  god 
or  engaged  in  dialogue  with  the  leader  of  the  chorus.     To  uSJschylus 


uiEsCHYLUS 


iESCHYLUS  185 

i?  due  ilie  invention  of  the  second  actor.  This  essentially  changed  the 
character  of  the  performance.  The  dialogue  could  now  be  carried  on 
by  the  two  actors,  who  were  thus  able  to  enact  a  complete  story. 
The  functions  of  the  chorus  became  less  important,  and  the  lyrical 
element  was  subordinated  to  the  action.  ( The  word  <<  drama  >*  signi- 
fies action.)  The  number  of  actors  was  subsequently  increased  to 
three,  and  ^schylus  in  his  later  plays  used  this  number.  This  re- 
striction imposed  upon  the  Greek  playwright  does  not  mean  that  he 
was  limited  to  two  or  three  characters  in  his  play,  but  that  only  two, 
or  at  the  most  three,  of  these  might  take  part  in  the  action  at  once. 
The  same  actor  might  assume  different  parts.  The  introduction  of 
the  second  actor  was  so  capital  an  innovation  that  it  rightly  entitles 
-^schylus  to  be  regarded  as  the  creator  of  the  drama,  for  in  his 
hands  tragedy  first  became  essentially  dramatic.  This  is  his  great 
distinction,  but  his  powerful  genius  wrought  other  changes.  He  per- 
fected, if  he  did  not  discover,  the  practice  of  introducing  three  plays 
upon  a  connected  theme  (technically  named  a  trilogy),  with  an  after- 
piece of  lighter  character.  He  invented  the  tragic  dress  and  buskin, 
and  perfected  the  tragic  mask.  He  improved  the  tragic  dance,  and 
by  his  use  of  scenic  decoration  and  stage  machinery,  secured  effects 
that  were  unknown  before  him.  His  chief  claim  to  superior  excel- 
lence, however,  lies  after  all  in  his  poetry.  Splendid  in  diction,  vivid 
in  the  portraiture  of  character,  and  powerful  in  the  expression  of 
passion,  he  is  regarded  by  many  competent  critics  as  the  greatest 
tragic  poet  of  all  time. 

The  Greek  lexicographer,  Suidas,  reports  that  ^schylus  wrote 
ninety  plays.  The  titles  of  seventy-two  of  these  have  been  handed 
down  in  an  ancient  register.  He  brought  out  the  first  of  these  at 
the  age  of  twenty-five,  and  as  he  died  at  the  age  of  sixty-nine,  he 
wrote  on  an  average  two  plays  each  year  throughout  his  lifetime. 
Such  fertility  would  be  incredible,  were  not  similar  facts  authen- 
tically recorded  of  the  older  tragic  poets  of  Greece.  The  Greek 
drama,  moreover,  made  unusual  demands  on  the  creative  powers  of 
the  poet.  It  was  lyrical,  and  the  lyrics  were  accompanied  by  the 
dance.  All  these  elements  —  poetry,  song,  and  dance  —  the  poet  con- 
tributed ;  and  we  gain  a  new  sense  of  the  force  of  the  word  <*  poet  ^* 
(it  means  <^ creator'^),  when  we  contemplate  his  triple  function. 
Moreover,  he  often  << staged"  the  play  himself,  and  sometimes  he 
acted  in  it.  ^schylus  was  singularly  successful  in  an  age  that  pro- 
duced many  great  poets.  He  took  the  first  prize  at  least  thirteen 
times;  and  as  he  brought  out  four  plays  at  each  contest,  more  than 
half  his  plays  were  adjudged  by  his  contemporaries  to  be  of  the 
highest  quality.  After  the  poet's  death,  plays  which  he  had  writ- 
ten, but  which  had  not  been  acted  in  his  lifetime,  were  brought  out 


l86  ^SCHYLUS 

by  his  sons  and  a  nephew.  It  is  on  record  that  his  son  Euphorion 
took  the  first  prize  four  times  with  plays  of  his  father;  so  the  poet's 
art  lived  after  him  and  suffered  no  eclipse. 

Only  seven  complete  plays  of  uEschylus  are  still  extant.  The 
best  present  source  of  the  text  of  these  is  a  manuscript  preserved  in 
the  Laurentian  Library,  at  Florence  in  Italy,  which  was  written  in 
the  tenth  or  eleventh  century  after  Christ.  The  number  of  plays 
still  extant  is  small,  but  fortunately,  among  them  is  the  only  com- 
plete Greek  trilogy  that  we  possess,  and  luckily  also  the  other  four 
serve  to  mark  successive  stages  in  the  poet's  artistic  development. 
The  trilogy  of  the  ^  Oresteia  ^  is  certainly  his  masterpiece ;  in  some  of 
the  other  plays  he  is  clearly  seen  to  be  still  bound  by  the  limitations 
which  hampered  the  earlier  writers  of  Greek  tragedy.  In  the  follow- 
ing analysis  the  seven  plays  will  be  presented  in  their  probable 
chronological  order. 

The  Greeks  signally  defeated  Xerxes  in  the  great  sea  fight  in  the 
bay  of  Salamis,  B.  C.  480.  The  poet  made  this  victory  the  theme  of 
his  <  Persians.  ^  This  is  the  only  historical  Greek  tragedy  which  we 
now  possess:  the  subjects  of  all  the  rest  are  drawn  from  mythology. 
But  ^schylus  had  a  model  for  his  historical  play  in  the  ^  Phoeni- 
cian Women  >  of  his  predecessor  Phrynichus,  which  dealt  with  the 
same  theme.  ^schylus,  indeed,  is  said  to  have  imitated  it  closely 
in  the  <  Persians.  *  Plagiarism  was  thought  to  be  a  venial  fault  by 
the  ancients,  just  as  in  the  Homeric  times  piracy  was  not  considered 
a  disgrace.  The  scene  of  the  play  is  not  Athens,  as  one  might 
expect,  but  Susa.  It  opens  without  set  prologue.  The  Chorus  con- 
sists of  Persian  elders,  to  whom  the  government  of  the  country  has 
been  committed  in  the  absence  of  the  King.  These  venerable  men 
gather  in  front  of  the  royal  palace,  and  their  leader  opens  the  play 
with  expressions  of  apprehension :  no  news  has  come  from  the  host 
absent  in  Greece.  The  Chorus  at  first  express  full  confidence  in  the 
resistless  might  of  the  great  army;  but  remembering  that  the  gods 
are  jealous  of  vast  power  and  success  in  men,  yield  to  gloomy  fore- 
bodings. These  grow  stronger  when  Atossa,  the  aged  mother  of 
Xerxes,  appears  from  the  palace  and  relates  the  evil  dreams  which 
she  has  had  on  the  previous  night,  and  the  omen  that  followed.  The 
Chorus  beseech  her  to  make  prayer  to  the  gods,  to  offer  libations  to 
the  dead,  and  especially  to  invoke  the  spirit  of  Darius  to  avert  the 
evil  which  threatens  his  ancient  kingdom.  Too  late !  A  messenger 
arrives  and  announces  that  all  is  lost.  By  one  fell  stroke  the  might 
of  Persia  has  been  laid  low  at  Salamis.  At  Atossa's  request,  the  mes- 
senger, interrupted  at  first  by  the  lamentations  of  the  Chorus,  recounts 
what  has  befallen.  His  description  of  the  battle  in  the  straits  is  a 
passage  of  signal  power,  and  is  justly  celebrated.     The  Queen  retires, 


^SCHYLUS 


187 


and  the  Chorus  sing  a  song  full  of  gloomy  reflections.  The  Queen 
reappears,  and  the  ghost  of  Darius  is  invoked  from  the  lower  world. 
He  hears  from  Atossa  what  has  happened,  sees  in  this  the  fulfill- 
ment of  certain  ancient  prophecies,  foretells  disaster  still  to  come, 
and  warns  the  Chorus  against  further  attempts  upon  Greece.  As  he 
departs  to  the  underworld,  the  Chorus  sing  in  praise  of  the  wisdom 
of  his  reign.  Atossa  has  withdrawn.  Xerxes  now  appears  with 
attendants,  laments  with  the  Chorus  the  disaster  that  has  overtaken 
him,  and  finally  enters  the  palace. 

The  economy  of  the  play  is  simple :  only  two  actors  are  required. 
The  first  played  the  parts  of  Atossa  and  Xerxes,  the  second  that  of 
the  messenger  and  the  ghost  of  Darius.  The  play  well  illustrates 
the  conditions  under  which  ^schylus  at  this  period  wrote.  The 
Chorus  was  still  of  first  importance;  the  ratio  of  the  choral  parts  in 
the  play  to  the  dialogue  is  about  one  to  two. 

The  exact  date  of  the  *  Suppliants  *  cannot  be  determined ;  but  the 
simplicity  of  its  plot,  the  lack  of  a  prologue,  the  paucity  of  its  char- 
acters, and  the  prominence  of  the  Chorus,  show  that  it  is  an  early 
play.  The  scene  is  Argos.  The  Chorus  consists  of  the  daughters  of 
Danaiis,  and  there  are  only  three  characters, — Danaiis,  a  Herald,  and 
Pelasgus  King  of  Argos. 

Danaiis  and  ^gyptus,  brothers,  and  descendants  of  lo  and  Epa- 
phus,  had  settled  near  Canopus  at  the  mouth  of  the  Nile.  -(Egyptus 
sought  to  unite  his  fifty  sons  in  marriage  with  the  fifty  daughters  of 
the  brother.  The  daughters  fled  with  their  father  to  Argos.  Here 
his  play  opens.  The  Chorus  appeal  for  protection  to  the  country, 
once  the  home  of  lo,  and  to  its  gods  and  heroes.  Pelasgus,  with  the 
consent  of  the  Argive  people,  grants  them  refuge,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  play  repels  the  attempt  to  seize  them  made  by  the  Herald  of  the 
sons  of  ^gy^ptus. 

A  part  of  one  of  the  choruses  is  of  singular  beauty,  and  it  is 
doubtless  to  them  that  the  preservation  of  the  play  is  due.  The 
play  hardly  seems  to  be  a  tragedy,  for  it  ends  without  bloodshed. 
Further,  it  lacks  dramatic  interest,  for  the  action  almost  stands  still. 
It  is  a  cantata  rather  than  a  tragedy.  Both  considerations,  however, 
are  sufficiently  explained  by  the  fact  that  this  was  the  first  play  of  a 
trilogy.  The  remaining  plays  must  have  furnished,  in  the  death  of 
forty-nine  of  the  sons  of  ^gyptus,  both  action  and  tragedy  in  suffi- 
cient measure  to  satisfy  the  most  exacting  demands. 

The  ^  Seven  Against  Thebes '  deals  with  the  gloomy  myth  of  the 
house  of  Laius.  The  tetralogy  to  which  it  belonged  consisted  of  the 
*Laius,*  'GEdipus,^  ^  Seven  Against  Thebes,*  and  <  Sphinx. >  The 
themes  of  Greek  tragedy  were  drawn  from  the  national  mythology, 
but  the   myths  were  treated  with  a  free  hand.     In  his  portrayal  of 


1 88  '  ^SCHYLUS 

the  fortunes  of  this  doomed  race,  -^^schylus  departed  in  Important 
particulars,  with  gain  in  dramatic  effect,  from  the  story  as  it  is  read 
in  Homer. 

CEdipus  had  pronounced  an  awful  curse  upon  his  sous,  Eteocles 
and  Polynices,  for  their  unfilial  neglect,  —  <^  they  should  one  day 
divide  their  land  by  steel. '^  They  thereupon  agreed  to  reign  in 
turn,  each  for  a  year;  but  Eteocles,  the  elder,  refused  at  the  end  of 
the  first  year  to  give  up  the  throne.  Polynices  appealed  to  Adrastus 
King  of  Argos  for  help,  and  seven  chiefs  appeared  before  the  walls 
of  Thebes  to  enforce  his  claim,  and  beleaguered  the  town.  Here 
the  play  opens,  with  an  appeal  addressed  by  Eteocles  to  the  citizens 
of  Thebes  to  prove  themselves  stout  defenders  of  their  State  in  its 
hour  of  peril.  A  messenger  enters,  and  describes  the  sacrifice  and 
oath  of  the  seven  chiefs.  The  Chorus  of  Theban  maidens  enter  in 
confusion  and  sing  the  first  ode.  The  hostile  army  is  hurrying  from 
its  camp  against  the  town;  the  Chorus  hear  their  shouts  and  the 
rattling  din  of  their  arms,  and  are  overcome  by  terror.  Eteocles 
reproves  them  for  their  fears,  and  bids  them  sing  a  pajan  that  shall 
hearten  the  people.  The  messenger,  in  a  noteworthy  scene,  de- 
scribes the  appearance  of  each  hostile  chief.  The  seventh  and  last 
is  Polynices.  Eteocles,  although  conscious  of  his  father's  curse,  nev- 
ertheless declares  with  gloomy  resoluteness  that  he  will  meet  his 
brother  in  single  combat,  and,  resisting  the  entreaties  of  the  Chorus, 
goes  forth  to  his  doom.  The  attack  on  the  town  is  repelled,  but 
the  brothers  fall,  each  by  the  other's  hand.  Thus  is  the  curse  ful- 
filled. Presently  their  bodies  are  wheeled  in.  Their  sisters,  Antigone 
and  Ismene,  follow  and  sing  a  lament  over  the  dead.  A  herald  an- 
nounces that  the  Theban  Senate  forbid  the  burial  of  Polynices;  his 
body  shall  be  cast  forth  as  prey  of  dogs.  Antigone  declares  her 
resolution  to  brave  their  mandate,  and  perform  the  last  sad  rites  for 
her  brother. 

« Dread  tie,  the  common  womb  from  which  we  sprang, — 
Of  wretched  mother  born  and  hapless  sire.» 

The  Chorus  divides.  The  first  semi-chorus  sides  with  Antigone; 
the  second  declares  its  resolution  to  follow  to  its  last  resting-place 
the  body  of  Eteocles.  And  thus  the  play  ends.  The  theme  is  here 
sketched,  just  at  the  close  of  the  play,  in  outline,  that  Sophocles 
has  developed  with  such  pathetic  effect  in  his   < Antigone.* 

The  *■  Prometheus  *  transports  the  reader  to  another  world.  The 
characters  are  gods,  the  time  is  the  remote  past,  the  place  a  desolate 
waste  in  Scythia,  on  the  confines  of  the  Northern  Ocean.  Pro- 
metheus had  sinned  against  the  authority  of  Zeus.  Zeus  wished  to 
destroy  the   old  race   of  mankind:   but  Prometheus  gave   them   fire. 


iESCHYLUS  189 

taught  them  arts  and  handicrafts,  developed  in  them  thought  and 
consciousness,  and  so  assured  both  their  existence  and  their  happi- 
ness. The  play  deals  with  his  punishment.  Prometheus  is  borne 
upon  the  scene  by  Force  and  Strength,  and  is  nailed  to  a  lofty  cliff 
by  Hephaestus.  His  appeal  to  Nature,  when  his  tormentors  depart 
and  he  is  left  alone,  is  peculiarly  pathetic.  The  daughters  of  Oce- 
anus,  constituting  the  Chorus,  who  have  heard  the  sound  of  the  ham- 
mer in  their  ocean  cave,  are  now  borne  in  aloft  on  a  winged  car, 
and  bewail  the  fate  of  the  outraged  god.  Oceanus  appears  upon  a 
winged  steed,  and  offers  his  mediation;  but  this  is  scornfully  rejected. 
The  resolution  of  Prometheus  to  resist  Zeus  to  the  last  is  strength- 
ened by  the  coming  of  lo.  She  too,  as  it  seems,  is  a  victim  of  the 
Ruler  of  the  Universe ;  driven  by  the  jealous  wrath  of  Hera,  she 
roams  from  land  to  land.  She  tells  the  tale  of  her  sad  wandering, 
and  finally  rushes  from  the  scene  in  frenzy,  crazed  by  the  sting  of 
the  gadfly  that  Hera  has  s.ent  to  torment  her.  Prometheus  knows  a 
secret  full  of  menace  to  Zeus.  Relying  on  this,  he  prophesies  his 
overthrow,  and  defies  him  to  do  his  worst.'-  Hermes  is  sent  to  de- 
mand with  threats  its  revelation,  but  fails  to  accomplish  his  purpose. 
Prometheus  insults  and  taunts  him.  Hermes  warns  the  Chorus  to 
leave,  for  Zeus  is  about  to  display  his  wrath.  At  first  they  refuse, 
but  then  fly  affrighted:  the  cliff  is  rending  and  sinking,  the  elements 
are  in  wild  tumult.  As  he  sinks,  about  to  be  engulfed  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth,  Prometheus  cries:  — 

«  Earth  is  rocking  in  space ! 
And  the  thunders  crash  up  with  a  roar  upon  roar, 

And  the  eddying  lightnings  flash  fire  in  my  face. 
And  the  whirlwinds  are  whirling  the  dust  round  and  round. 

And  the  blasts  of  the  winds  universal  leap  free 
And  blow  each  upon  each  with  a  passion  of  sound. 

And  aether  goes  mingling  in  storm  with  the  sea.» 

The  play  is  Titanic.  Its  huge  shapes,  its  weird  effects,  its  mighty 
passions,  its  wild  display  of  the  forces  of  earth  and  air, — these  im- 
press us  chiefly  at  first;  but  its  ethical  interest  is  far  greater.  Zeus 
is  apparently  represented  in  it  as  relentless,  cruel,  and  unjust, — a 
lawless  ruler,  who  knows  only  his  own  will,  —  whereas  in  all  the 
other  plays  of  ^schylus  he  is  just  and  righteous,  although  sometimes 
severe.  -^Eschylus,  we  know,  was  a  religious  man.  It  seems  incred- 
ible that  he  should  have  had  two  contradictory  conceptions  of  the 
character  of  Zeus.  The  solution  of  this  problem  is  to  be  found  in 
the  fact  that  this  *■  Prometheus  *  was  the  first  play  of  the  trilogy.  In 
the  second  play,  the  *  Prometheus  Unbound,*  of  which  we  have  only 
fragments,  these  apparent  contradictions  must  have  been  reconciled. 
Long   ages  are   supposed  to   elapse   between  the   plays.     Promethem 


190  '  ^SCHYLUS 

yields.  He  reveals  the  secret  and  is  freed  from  his  bonds.  What 
before  seemed  to  be  relentless  wanton  cruelty  is  now  seen  to  have 
been  only  the  harsh  but  necessary  severity  of  a  ruler  newly  estab- 
lished on  his  throne.  By  the  reconciliation  of  this  stern  ruler  with 
the  wise  Titan,  the  giver  of  good  gifts  to  men,  order  is  restored  to 
the  universe.  Prometheus  acknowledges  his  guilt,  and  the  course 
of  Zeus  is  vindicated;  but  the  loss  of  the  second  play  of  the  trilogy 
leaves  much  in  doubt,  and  an  extraordinary  number  of  solutions  of 
the  problem  has  been  proposed.  The  reader  must  not  look  for  one 
of  these,  however,  in  the  <  Prometheus  Unbound  >  of  Shelley,  who 
deliberately  rejected  the  supposition  of  a  reconciliation. 

The  three  remaining  plays  are  founded  on  the  woful  myth  of  the 
house  of  Atreus,  son  of  Pelops,  a  theme  much  treated  by  the  Greek 
tragic  poets.  They  constitute  the  only  existing  Greek  trilogy,  and 
are  the  last  and  greatest  work  of  the  poet.  They  were  brought  out 
at  Athens,  B.  C.  458,  two  years  after  the  author's  death.  The  ^Aga- 
memnon^ sets  forth  the  crime, — the  murder,  by  his  wife,  of  the 
great  King,  on  his  return  home  from  Troy;  the  ^Choephori,^  the  ven- 
geance taken  on  the  guilty  wife  by  her  own  son;  the  ^Eumenides,^  the 
atonement  made  by  that  son  in  expiation  of  his  mother's  murder. 

Agamemnon  on  departing  for  Troy  left  behind  him  in  his  palace 
a  son  and  a  daughter,  Orestes  and  Electra.  Orestes  was  exiled  from 
home  by  his  mother  Clytemnestra,  who  in  Agamemnon's  absence 
lived  in  guilty  union  with  u^gisthus,  own  cousin  of  the  King,  and 
who  could  no  longer  endure  to  look  upon  the  face  of  her  son. 

The  scene  of  the  <  Agamemnon  *  is  the  royal  palace  in  Argos. 
The  time  is  night.  A  watchman  is  discovered  on  the  flat  roof  of 
the  palace.  For  a  year  he  has  kept  weary  vigil  there,  waiting  for 
the  beacon-fire  that,  sped  from  mountain-top  to  mountain-top,  shall 
announce  the  fall  of  Troy.  The  signal  comes  at  last,  and  joyously 
he  proclaims  the  welcome  news.  The  sacrificial  fires  which  have 
been  made  ready  in  anticipation  of  the  event  are  set  alight  through- 
out the  city.  The  play  naturally  falls  into  three  divisions.  The 
first  introduces  the  Chorus  of  Argive  elders,  Clytemnestra,  and  a 
Herald  who  tells  of  the  hardships  of  the  siege  and  of  the  calamitous 
return,  and  ends  with  the  triumphal  entrance  of  Agamemnon  with 
Cassandra,  and  his  welcome  by  the  Queen;  the  second  comprehends 
the  prophecy  of  the  frenzied  Cassandra  of  the  doom  about  to  fall 
upon  the  house  and  the  murder  of  the  King;  the  third  the  conflict 
between  the  Chorus,  still  faithful  to  the  murdered  King,  and  Cly- 
temnestra, beside  whom  stands  her  paramour  ^gisthus. 

Interest  centres  in  Clytemnestra.  Crafty,  unscrupulous,  resolute, 
remorseless,  she  veils  her  deadly  hatred  for  her  lord,  and  welcomes 
him  home  in  tender  speech :  — 


^SCHYLUS  191 

*So  now,  dear  lord,  I  bid  thee  welcome  home  — 
True  as  the  faithful  watchdog  of  the  fold, 
Strong  as  the  mainstay  of  the  laboring  bark. 
Stately  as  column,  fond  as  only  child, 
Dear  as  the  land  to  shipwrecked  mariner, 
Bright  as  fair  sunshine  after  winter's  storms, 
Sweet  as  fresh  fount  to  thirsty  wanderer  — 
All  this,  and  more,  thou  art,  dear  love,  to  me.» 

Agamemnon  passes  within  the  palace;  she  slays  him  in  his  bath, 
enmeshed  in  a  net,  and   then,  reappearing,  vaunts  her  bloody  deed: 

'<I  smote  him,  and  he  bellowed;  and  again 
I  smote,  and  with  a  groan  his  knees  gave  way; 
And  as  he  fell  before  me,  with  a  third 
And  last  libation  from  the  deadly  mace, 
I  pledged  the  crowning  draught  to  Hades  due. 
That  subterranean  Saviour — of  the  dead! 
At  which  he  spouted  up  the  Ghost  in  such 
A  flood  of  purple  as,  bespattered  with. 
No  less  did  I  rejoice  than  the  green  ear 
Rejoices  in  the  largesse  of  the  skies 
That  fleeting  Iris  follows  as  it  flies. >> 

^schylus  departs  from  the  Homeric  account,  which  was  followed 
by  other  poets,  in  making  the  action  of  the  next  play,  the  *  Cho- 
ephori,^  follow  closer  upon  that  of  the  < Agamemnon.'  Orestes  has 
heard  in  Phocis  of  his  father's  murder,  and  returns  in  secret,  with 
his  friend  Pylades,  to  exact  vengeance.  The  scene  is  still  Argos, 
but  Agamemnon's  tomb  is  now  seen  in  front  of  the  palace.  The 
Chorus  consists  of  captive  women,  who  aid  and  abet  the  attempt. 
The  play  sets  forth  the  recognition  of  Orestes  by  Electra;  the  plot 
by  which  Orestes  gains  admission  to  the  palace;  the  deceit  of  the 
old  Nurse,  a  homely  but  capital  character,  by  whom  ^gisthus  is 
induced  to  come  to  the  palace  without  armed  attendants;  the  death 
of  ^gisthus  and  Clytemnestra ;  the  appearance  of  the  avenging 
Furies;  and  the  flight  of  Orestes. 

The  last  play  of  the  trilogy,  the  <Eumenides,*  has  many  singular 
features.  The  Chorus  of  Furies  seemed  even  to  the  ancients  to  be 
a  weird  and  terrible  invention;  the  scene  of  the  play  shifts  from 
Delphi  to  Athens;  the  poet  introduces  into  the  play  a  trial  scene; 
and  he  had  in  it  a  distinct  political  purpose,  whose  development 
occupies  one-half  of  the  drama. 

Orestes,  pursued  by  the  avenging  Furies,  *  Gorgon-like,  vested  in 
sable  stoles,  their  locks  entwined  with  clustering  snakes,^*  has  fled  to 
Delphi  to  invoke  the  aid  of  Apollo.  He  clasps  the  navel-stone  and 
in  his  exhaustion  falls  asleep.      Around  him  sleep  the  Furies.      The 


192  ■,  ^SCHYLUS 

play  opens  with  a  prayer  made  by  the  Pythian  priestess  at  an  altar 
in  front  of  the  temple.  The  interior  of  the  sanctuary  is  then  laid 
bare.  Orestes  is  awake,  but  the  Furies  sleep  on.  Apollo,  standing 
beside  Orestes,  promises  to  protect  him,  but  bids  him  make  all  haste 
to  Athens,  and  there  clasp,  as  a  suppliant,  the  image  of  Athena. 
Orestes  flies.  The  ghost  of  Clytemnestra  rises  from  the  underworld, 
and  calls  upon  the  Chorus  to  pursue.  Overcome  by  their  toil,  they 
moan  in  their  sleep,  but  finally  start  to  their  feet.  Apollo  bids  them 
quit  the  temple. 

The  scene  changes  to  the  ancient  temple  of  Athena  on  the 
Acropolis  at  Athens,  where  Orestes  is  seen  clasping  the  image  of  the 
goddess.  The  Chorus  enter  in  pursuit  of  their  victim,  and  sing  an  ode 
descriptive  of  their  powers. 

Athena  appears,  and  learns  from  the  Chorus  and  from  Orestes  the 
reasons  for  their  presence.  She  declares  the  issue  to  be  too  grave 
even  for  her  to  decide,  and  determines  to  choose  judges  of  the  mur- 
der, who  shall  become  a  solemn  tribunal  for  all  future  time.  These 
are  to  be  the  best  of  the  citizens  of  Athens.  After  an  ode  by  the 
Chorus,  she  returns,  the  court  is  established,  and  the  trial  proceeds 
in  due  form.  Apollo  appears  for  the  defense  of  Orestes.  When  the 
arguments  have  been  presented,  Athena  proclaims,  before  the  vote 
has  been  taken,  the  establishment  of  the  court  as  a  permanent  tri- 
bunal for  the  trial  of  cases  of  bloodshed.  Its  seat  shall  be  the  Are- 
opagus. The  votes  are  cast  and  Orestes  is  acquitted.  He  departs  for 
Argos.  The  Furies  break  forth  in  anger  and  threaten  woes  to  the 
land,  but  are  appeased  by  Athena,  who  establishes  their  worship  for- 
ever in  Attica.  Heretofore  they  have  been  the  Erinnyes,  or  Furies; 
henceforth  they  shall  be  the  Eumenides,  or  Graciotts  Goddesses. 
The  Eumenides  are  escorted  from  the  scene  in  solemn  procession. 

Any  analysis  of  the  plays  so  brief  as  the  preceding  is  necessarily 
inadequate.  The  English  reader  is  referred  to  the  histories  of  Greek 
Literature  by  K.  O.  Miiller  and  by  J.  P.  Mahaffy,  to  the  striking 
chapter  on  ^schylus  in  J.  A.  Symonds's  <  Greek  Poets,  ^  and,  for  the 
trilogy,  to  Moulton's  ^Ancient  Classical  Drama.*  If  he  knows  French, 
he  should  add  Croiset's  ^  Histoire  de  la  Litterature  Grecque,*  and 
should  by  all  means  read  M.  Patin's  volume  on  ^schylus  in  his 
<  Etudes  sur  les  Tragique  Grecs.'  There  are  translations  in  English 
of  the  poet's  complete  works  by  Potter,  by  Plumptre,  by  Blackie, 
and  by  Miss  Swanwick.  Flaxman  illustrated  the  plays.  Ancient 
illustrations  are  easily  accessible  in  Baumeister's  ^Denkmaler,'  under 
the  names  of  the  different  characters  in  the  plays.  There  is  a  transla- 
tion of  the  <  Prometheus  *  by  Mrs.  Browning,  and  of  the  *■  Suppliants ' 
by  Morshead,  who  has  also  translated  the  Atridean  trilogy  under 
the  title  of  <  The  House  of  Atreus.  *  Goldwin  Smith  has  translated 
portions   of   six  of   the   plays  in   his  <  Specimens  of  Greek  Tragedy.* 


PROMETHEUS  BOUND 
"Nailed  to  this  wall  of  eagle-baffling  mountain" 


v/ii/H  : 


AESCHYLUS  193 

Many  translations  of  the  *Agamemnon>  have  been  made,  among  oth- 
ers by  Milman,  by  Symmons,  by  Lord  Carnarvon,  and  by  Fitzgerald. 
Robert  Brov/ning  also  translated  the  play,  with  appalling  literalness. 


y^^JM^*..^  A^- 


THE  COMPLAINT  OF   PROMETHEUS 
PROMETHEUS   (alone) 

OHOLY  ^ther,   and  swift-winged  Winds, 
And  River-wells,  and  laughter  innumerous 
Of  yon  Sea-waves!     Earth,  mother  of  us  all. 
And  all- vie  wing  cyclic  Sun,   I  cry  on  you, — 
Behold  me  a  god,  what  I  endure  from  gods! 
Behold,   with  throe  on  throe. 
How,   wasted  by  this  woe, 
I  wrestle  down  the  myriad  years  of  Time! 

Behold,  how  fast  around  me 
The  new  King  of  the  happy  ones  sublime 
Has  flung  the  chain  he  forged,  has  shamed  and  bound  me! 
Woe,  woe!  to-day's  woe  and  the  coming  morrow's 
I  cover  with  one  groan.     And   where  is  found  me 

A  limit  to  these  sorrows  ? 
And  yet  what  word  do  I  say  ?    I  have  foreknown 
Clearly  all  things  that  should  be;   nothing  done 
Comes  sudden  to  my  soul — and  I  must  bear 
What  is  ordained  with  patience,  being  aware 
Necessity  doth  front  the  universe 
With  an  invincible   gesture.     Yet  this  curse 
Which  strikes  me  now,  I  find  it  hard  to  brave 
In  silence  or  in  speech.     Because  I  gave 
Honor  to  mortals,  I  have  yoked  my  soul 
To  this  compelling  fate.     Because  I  stole 
The  secret  fount  of  fire,   whose  bubbles  went 
Over  the  ferrule's  brim,   and  manward  sent 
Art's  mighty  means  and  perfect  rudiment. 
That  sin  I  expiate  in  this  agony, 
Hung  here  in  fetters,   'neath  the  blanching  sky. 
Ah,  ah  me!  what  a  sound. 
What  a  fragrance  sweeps  up   from  a  pinion  unseen 
Of  a  god,  or  a  mortal,  or  nature  between. 
Sweeping  up  to  this  rock  where  the  earth  has  her  bound, 
I— 13 


194 


^SCHYLUS 

To  have  sight  of  my  pangs,  or  some  guerdon  obtain  — 
Lo,  a  god  in  the  anguish,  a  god  in  the  chain! 

The  god  Zeus  hateth  sore, 

And  his  gods  hate  again. 
As  many  as  tread  on  his  glorified  floor, 
Because  I  loved  mortals  too  much  evermore. 
Alas  me!   what  a  murmur  and  motion  I  hear. 

As  of  birds  flying  near! 

And  the  air  undersings 

The  light  stroke  of  their  wings  — 
And  all  life  that  approaches  I  wait  for  in  fear. 

From  E.  B.  Browning's  Translation  of  <  Prometheus. 


A  PRAYER  TO  ARTEMIS 

STROPHE   IV 

THOUGH  Zeus  plan  all  things  right. 
Yet  is  his  heart's  desire  full  hard  to  trace;    ' 
Nathless  in  every  place 
Brightly  it  gleameth,  e'en  in  darkest  night, 
Fiaught  with  black  fate  to  man's  speech-gifted  race. 

ANTISTROPHE   IV 

Steadfast,  ne'er  thrown  in  fight. 
The  deed  in  brow  of  Zeus  to  ripeness  brought; 
For  wrapt  in  shadowy  night, 

Tangled,  unscanned  by  mortal  sight. 
Extend  the  pathways  of  his  secret  thought. 

STROPHE  V 

From  towering  hopes  mortals  he  hurleth  prone 
To  utter  doom:   but  for  their  fall 
No  force  arrayeth  he;   for  all 
That  gods  devise  is  without  effort  wrought. 
A  mindful  Spirit  aloft  on  holy  throne 
By  inborn  energy  achieves  his  thought. 

ANTISTROPHE  V 

But  let  him  mortal  insolence  behold:  — 

How  with  proud  contumacy  rife, 

Wantons  the  stem  in  lusty  life 
My  marriage  craving;  —  frenzy  over-bold, 
Spur  ever-pricking,  goads  them  on  to  fate, 
By  ruin  taught  their  folly  all  too  late. 


yESCHYLUS  195 

STROPHE  VI 

Thus  I  complain,  in  piteous  strain, 
Grief-laden,  tear-evoking,  shrill; 

Ah  woe  is  me !  woe !  woe ! 
Dirge-like  it  sounds;  mine  own  death-trill 
I  pour,  yet  breathing  vital  air. 
Hear,  hill-crowned  Apia,  hear  my  prayer! 
Full  well,  O  land. 
My  voice  barbaric  thou  canst  understand; 

While  oft  with  rendings  I  assail 
My  byssine  vesture  and  Sidonian  veil. 

ANTISTROPHE   VI 

My  nuptial  right  in  Heaven's  pure  sight 
Pollution  were,  death-laden,  rude; 

Ah  woe  is  me !  woe !  woe ! 
Alas  for  sorrow's  murky  brood! 
Where  will  this  billow  hurl  me  ?    Where  ? 
Hear,  hill-crowned  Apia,  hear  my  prayer; 
Full  well,  O  land. 
My  voice  barbaric  thou  canst  understand, 

While  oft  with  rendings  I  assail 
My  byssine  vesture  and  Sidonian  veil. 

STROPHE   VII 

The  oar  indeed  and  home  with  sails 
Flax-tissued,  swelled  with  favoring  gales, 
Stanch  to  the  wave,  from  spear-storm  free, 
Have  to  this  shore  escorted  me, 
Nor  so  far  blame  I  destiny. 
But  may  the  all-seeing  Father  send 
In  fitting  time  propitious  end; 
So  our  dread  Mother's  mighty  brood 
The  lordly  couch  may  'scape,  ah  me, 
Unwedded,  unsubdued! 

ANTISTROPHE   VII 

Meeting  my  will  with  will  divine, 
Daughter  of  Zeus,  who  here  dost  hold 

Steadfast  thy  sa'cred  shrine, — 
Me,  Artemis  unstained,  behold. 
Do  thou,  who  sovereign  might  dost  wield, 
Virgin  thyself,  a  virgin  shield; 


]  96  ^SCHYLUS 

So  our  dread  Mother's  mighty  brood 
The  lordly  couch  may  'scape,  ah  me, 

Unwedded,  unsubdued! 
From  Miss  Swanwick's  Translation  of  <The  Suppliants.* 

THE   DEFIANCE   OF   ETEOCLES 
MESSENGER 

NOW  at  the  Seventh  Gate  the  seventh  chief. 
Thy  proper  mother's  son,  I  will  announce, 
What  fortune  for  this  city,  for  himself, 
With  curses  he  invoketh:  —  on  the  walls 
Ascending,  heralded  as  king,  to   stand, 
With  paeans  for  their  capture;  then  with  thee 
To  fight,  and  either  slaying  near  thee  die, 
Or  thee,  who  wronged  him,  chasing  forth  alive. 
Requite  in  kind  his  proper  banishment. 
Such  Avords  he  shouts,  and  calls  upon  the  gods 
Who  o'er  his  race  preside  and  Fatherland, 
With  gracious  eye  to  look  upon  his  prayers. 
A  well-wrought  buckler,  newly  forged,  he  bears, 
With  twofold  blazon  riveted  thereon, 
For  there  a  woman  leads,  with  sober  mien, 
A  mailed  warrior,  enchased  in  gold; 
Justice  her  style,  and  thus  the  legend  speaks:  — 
^^This  man  I  will  restore,  and  he  shall  hold 
The  city  and  his  father's  palace  homes.** 
Such  the  devices  of  the  hostile  chiefs. 
'Tis  for  thyself  to  choose  whom  thou  wilt  send; 
But  never  shalt  thou  blame  my  herald-words. 
To  guide  the  rudder  of  the  State  be  thine! 

ETEOCLES 

O  heaven-demented  race  of  CEdipus, 

My  race,  tear-fraught,   detested  of  the  gods! 

Alas,   our  father's  curses  now  bear  fruit. 

But  it  beseems  not  to  lament  or  weep, 

Lest  lamentations  sadder  still  be  born. 

For  him,  too  truly  Polyneikes  named, — 

What  his  device  will  work  we  soon  shall  know; 

Whether  his  braggart -words,  with  madness  fraught, 

Gold-blazoned  on  his  shield,   shall  lead  him  back. 

Hath  Justice  communed  with,  or  claimed  him  hers, 


^SCHYLUS  197 

• 

Guided  his  deeds  and  thoughts,  this  might  have  been; 
But  neither  when  he  fled  the  darksome  womb, 
Or  in  his  childhood,  or  in  youth's  fair  prime. 
Or  when  the  hair  thick  gathered  on  his  chin. 
Hath  Justice  communed  with,  or  claimed  him  hers. 
Nor  in  this  outrage  on  his  Fatherland 
Deem  I  she  now  beside  hjm  deigns  to  stand. 
For  Justice  would  in  sooth  belie  her  name. 
Did  she  with  this  all-daring  man  consort. 
In  these  regards  confiding  will  I  go. 
Myself  will  meet  him.     Who  with  better  right? 
Brother  to  brother,  chieftain  against  chief, 
Foeman  to  foe,  I'll  stand.     Quick,  bring  my  spear, 
My  greaves,  and  armor,  bulwark  against  stones. 
From  Miss  Swanwick's  Translation  of  <The  Seven  Against    Thebes.* 

THE  VISION   OF  CASSANDRA 

CASSANDRA 

PHCEBUS  Apollo! 
CHOPUS 

Hark  ! 
The  lips  at  last  unlocking. 

CASSANDRA 

Phoebus !     Phoebus ! 

CHORUS 

Well,  what  of  Phoebus,  maiden  ?  though  a  name 
'Tis  but  disparagement  to  call  upon 
In  misery. 

CASSANDRA 

Apollo!     Apollo!     Again! 
Oh,  the  burning  arrow  through  the  brain! 
Phoebus  Apollo!  Apollo! 

CHORUS 

•<» 

Seemingly 

Possessed  indeed  —  whether  by  — 

CASSANDRA 

Phoebus!     Phoebus! 
Through  trampled  ashes,  blood,  and  fiery  rain, 


ig8  ^SCHYLUS 

• 
Over  water  seething,  and  behind  the  breathing 

War-horse  in  the  darkness  —  till  you  rose  again. 

Took  the  helm  —  took  the  rein  — 

CHORUS 

As  one  that  half  asleep  at  dawn  recalls 
A  night  of  Horror! 

CASSANDRA 

Hither,  whither,  Phoebus  ?    And  with  whom, 
Leading  me,  lighting  me  — 

CHORUS 

I  can  answer  that — 

CASSANDRA 

Down  to  what  slaughter-house! 
Foh!  the  smell  of  carnage  through  the  door 
Scares  me  from  it  —  drags  me  toward  it — 
Phoebus  Apollo!    Apollo! 

CHORUS 

One  of  the  dismal  prophet-pack,  it  seems, 
That  hunt  the  trail  of  blood.     But  here  at  fault — 
This  is  no  den  of  slaughter,  but  the  house 
Of  Agamemnon. 

CASSANDRA 

Down  upon  the  towers,  [man. 

Phantoms   of   two    mangled   children  hover  —  and  a  famished 
At  an  empty  table  glaring,  seizes  and  devours! 

CHORUS 

Thyestes  and  his  children!     Strange  enough 
For  any  maiden  from  abroad  to  know, 
Or,  knowing  — 

CASSANDRA 

And  look!  in  the  chamber  below 
The  terrible  "Woman,  listening,  watching, 
Under  a  mask,  preparing  the  blow 
In  the  fold  of  her  robe  — 

CHORUS 

Nay,  but  again  at  fault: 
For  in  the  tragic  story  of  this  House  — 


^SCHYLUS  199 

Unless,  indeed  the  fatal  Helen  — 
No  woman  — 

CASSANDRA 

No  Woman  —  Tisiphone!     Daughter 
Of  Tartarus  —  love-grinning  Woman  above, 
Dragon-tailed  under  —  honey-tongued,  Harpy-clawed, 
Into  the  glittering  meshes  of  slaughter 

She  wheedles^  entices  him  into  the  poisonous 
Fold  of  the  serpent  — 

CHORUS 

Peace,  mad  woman,  peace! 
Whose  stony  lips  once  open  vomit  out 
Such  uncouth  horrors. 

CASSANDRA 

I  tell  you  the  lioness 
Slaughters  the  Lion  asleep;  and  lifting 
Her  blood-dripping  fangs  buried  deep  in  his  mane, 
Glaring  about  her  insatiable,  bellowing. 
Bounds  hither  —  Phoebus  Apollo,  Apollo,  Apollo! 
Whither  have  you  led  me,  under  night  alive  with  fire. 
Through  the  trampled  ashes  of  the  city  of  my  sire. 
From  my  slaughtered  kinsmen,  fallen  throne,  insulted  shrine, 
Slave-like  to  be  butchered,  the  daughter  of  a  royal  line! 

From  Edward  Fitzgerald's  Version  of  the  <  Agamemnon.* 


THE   LAMENT   OF   THE   OLD   NURSE 
NURSE 

OUR  mistress  bids  me  with  all  speed  to  call 
uEgisthus  to  the  strangers,  that  he  come 
And  hear  more  clearly,  as  a  man  from  man, 
This  newly  brought  report.     Before  her  slaves, 
Under  set  eyes  of  melancholy  cast. 
She  hid  her  inner  chuckle  at  the  events 
That  have  been  brought  to  pass  —  too  well  for  her, 
But  for   this  house  and  hearth  most  miserably,  — 
As  in  the  tale  the  strangers  clearly  told. 
He,  when  he  hears  and  learns  the  story's  gist, 
Will  joy,  I  trow,   in  heart.     Ah,  wretched  me!         ' 
How  those  old  troubles,  of  all  sorts  made  up, 
Most  hard  to  bear,  in  Atreus's  palace-halls 


^SCHYLUS 

Have  made  my  heart  full  heavy  in  my  breast! 

But  never  have  I  known  a  woe  like  this. 

For  other  ills  I  bore  full  patiently, 

But  as  for  dear  Orestes,   my  sweet  charge, 

Whom  from  his  mother  I  received  and  nursed     .     .     . 

And  then  the  shrill  cries  rousing  me  o'  nights. 

And  many  and  unprofitable  toils 

For  me  who  bore  them.     For  one  needs  must  rear 

The  heedless  infant  like  an  animal, 

(How  can  it  else  be  ?)  as  his  humor  serve 

For  while  a  child  is  yet  in  swaddling  clothes, 

It  speaketh  not,  if  either  hunger  comes. 

Or  passing  thirst,  or  lower  calls  of  need; 

And  children's  stomach  works  its  own  content. 

And  I,  though  I  foresaw  this,  call  to  mind. 

How  I  was  cheated,  washing  swaddling  clothes, 

And  nurse  and  laundress  did  the  selfsame  work. 

I  then  with  these  my  double  handicrafts. 

Brought  up  Orestes  for  his  father  dear; 

And  now,  woe's  me!     I  learn  that  he  is  dead. 

And  go  to  fetch  the  man  that  mars  this  house; 

And  gladly  will  he  hear  these  words  of  mine. 

From  Plumptre's  Translation  of  <The  Libation-Pourers.' 


THE   DECREE   OF   ATHENA 

HEAR  ye  my  statute,   men  of  Attica  — 
Ye  who  of  bloodshed  judge  this  primal  cause; 
Yea,  and  in  future  age  shall  ^geus's  host 
Revere  this  court  of  jurors.     This  the  hill 
Of  Ares,  seat  of  Amazons,  their  tent, 
What  time  'gainst  Theseus,  breathing  hate,  they  came. 
Waging  fierce  battle,  and  their  towers  upreared, 
A  counter-fortress  to  Acropolis;  — 
To  Ares  they  did  sacrifice,  and  hence 
This  rock  is  titled  Areopagus. 
Here  then  shall  sacred  Awe,  to  Fear  allied. 
By  day  and  night -my  lieges  hold  from  wrong, 
Save  if  themselves  do  innovate  my  laws, 
If  thou  with  mud,  or  influx  base,  bedim 
The  sparkling  water,  nought  thou'lt  find  to  drink. 
Nor  Anarchy,  nor  Tyrant's  lawless  rule 
Commend  I  to  my  people's  reverence;  — 
Nor  let  them  banish  from  their  city  Fear; 


^SOP  201 

For  who  'mong  men,  uncurbed  by  fear,  i^  just  ? 

Thus  holding  Awe  in  seemly  reverence, 

A  bulwark  for  your  State  shall  ye  possess, 

A  safeguard  to  protect  your  city  walls. 

Such  as  no  mortals  otherwhere  can  boast, 

Neither  in  Scythia,  nor  in  Pelops's  realm. 

Behold!     This  court  august,  untouched  by  bribes. 

Sharp  to  avenge,  wakeful  for  those  who  sleep. 

Establish  I,  a  bulwark  to  this  land. 

This  charge,  extending  to  all  future  t-me, 

I  give  my  lieges.     Meet  it  as  ye  rise. 

Assume  the  pebbles,  and  decide  the  cause. 

Your  oath  revering.     All  hath  now  been  said. 

From  Miss  Swanwick's  Translation  of  <The  Eumenides.> 


/ESOP 

(Seventh  Century  B.  C.) 
BY  HARRY  THURSTON  PECK 

fiKE  Homer,  .the  greatest  of  the  world's  epic  poets,  ^sop 
(-i^sopus),  the  most  famous  of  the  world's  fabulists,  has 
been  regarded  by  certain  scholars  as  a  wholly  mythical 
personage.  The  many  improbable  stories  that  are  told  about  him 
gain  some  credence  for  this  theory,  which  is  set  forth  in  detail  by 
the  Italian  scholar  Vico,  who  says:  —  ^^JEsop,  re- 
garded philosophically,  will  be  found  not  to  have 
been  an  actually  existing  man,  but  rather  an 
abstraction  representing  a  class,'' — in  other  words, 
merely  a  convenient  invention  of  the  later  Greeks, 
who  ascribed  to  him  all  the  fables  of  which  they 
could  find  no  certain  author. 

The  only  narrative  upon  which  the  ancient 
writers  are  in  the  main  agreed  represents  ^sop 
as  living  in  the  seventh  century  before  Christ.  As 
with  Homer,  so  with  -<Esop,  several  cities  of  Asia 
Minor  claimed  the  honor  of  having  been  his  birth-  JEsOP 

place.     Born   a  slave  and  hideously  ugly,  his  keen 
wit  led  his  admiring  master  to  set  him  free;   after  which  he  trav- 
eled,   visiting   Athens,    where   he   is   said  to    have   told   his   fable    of 
King  Log  and  King  Stork  to  the   citizens  who  were  complaining  of 
the  rule   of  Pisistratus.      Still  later,  having  won  the   favor  of  King 


202  ^SOP 

Croesus  of  Lydia,  he  was  sent  by  him  to  Delphi  with  a  gift  of 
money  for  the  citizens  of  that  place ;  but  in  the  course  of  a  dispute 
as  to  its  distribution,  he  was  slain  by  the  Delphians,  who  threw  him 
over  a  precipice. 

The  fables  that  bore  his  name  seem  not  to  have  been  committed 
by  him  to  writing,  but  for  a  long  time  were  handed  down  from  gen- 
eration to  generation  by  oral  tradition;  so  that  the  same  fables  are 
sometimes  found  quoted  in  slightly  different  forms,  and  we  hear  of 
men  learning  them  in  conversation  rather  than  from  books.  They 
were,  however,  universally  popular.  Socrates  while  in  prison  amused 
himself  by  turning  some  of  them  into  verse.  Aristophanes  cites 
them  in  his  plays;  and  he  tells  how  certain  suitors  once  tried  to  win 
favor  of  a  judge  by  repeating  to  him  some  of  the  amusing  stories  of 
^sop.  The  Athenians  even  erected  a  statue  in  his  honor.  At  a 
later  period,  the  fables  were  gathered  together  and  published  by  the 
Athenian  statesman  and  orator,  Demetrius  Phalereus,  in  B.  C.  320, 
and  were  versified  by  Babrius  (of  uncertain  date),  whose  collection  is 
the  only  one  in  Greek  of  which  any  substantial  portion  still  sur- 
vives. They  were  often  translated  by  the  Romans,  and  the  Latin 
version  by  Phasdrus,  the  freedman  of  Augustus  Cassar,  is  still  pre- 
served and  still  used  as  a  school-book.  Forty-two  of  them  are  like- 
wise found  in  a  Latin  work  by  one  Avianus,  dating  from  the  fifth 
century  after  Christ.  During  the  Middle  Ages,  when  much  of  the 
classical  literature  had  been  lost  or  forgotten,  ^sop,  who  was  called 
by  the  mediaevals  <*Isopet,>*  was  still  read  in  various  forms;  and  in 
modern  times  he  has  served  as  a  model  for  a  great  number  of  imita- 
tions, of  which  the  most  successful  are  those  in  French  by  Lafon- 
taine  and  those  in  English  by  John  Gay. 

Whether  or  not  such  a  person  as  ^sop  ever  lived,  and  whether 
or  not  he  actually  narrated  the  fables  that  are  ascribed  to  him,  it  is 
certain  that  he  did  not  himself  invent  them,  but  merely  gave  them 
currency  in  Greece ;  for  they  can  be  shown  to  have  existed  long 
before  his  time,  and  in  fact  to  antedate  even  the  beginnings  of  Hel- 
lenic civilization.  With  some  changes  of  form  they  are  found  in  the 
oldest  literature  of  the  Chinese;  similar  stories  are  preserved  on  the 
inscribed  Babylonian  bricks;  and  an  Egyptian  papyrus  of  about  the 
year  1 200  B.  C.  gives  the  fable  of  ^  The  Lion  and  the  Mouse  *  in  its 
finished  form.  Other  ^sopic  apologues  are  essentially  identical  with 
the  Jatakas  or  Buddhist  stories  of  India,  and  occur  also  in  the  great 
Sanskrit  story-book,  the  <  Panchatantra, '  which  is  the  very  oldest 
monument  of  Hindu  literature. 

The  so-called  ^sopic  Fables  are  in  fact  only  a  part  of  the  primi- 
tive folk-lore,  that  springs  up  in  prehistoric  times,  and  passes  from 
country  to  country  and   from  race   to  race  by  the   process  of  popular 


^SOP 


>o3 


story-telling.  They  reached  Greece,  undoubtedly  through  Egypt  and 
Persia,  and  even  in  their  present  form  they  still  retain  certain  Ori- 
ental, or  at  any  rate  non-Hellenic  elements,  such  as  the  introduction 
of  Eastern  animals, — the  panther,  the  peacock,  and  the  ape.  They 
represent  the  beginnings  of  conscious  literary  effort,  when  man  first 
tried  to  enforce  some  maxim  of  practical  wisdom  and  to  teach  some 
useful  truth  through  the  fascinating  medium  of  a  story.  The  Fable 
embodies  a  half-unconscious  desire  to  give  concrete  form  to  an 
abstract  principle,  and  a  childish  love  for  the  picturesque  and  strik- 
ing, which  endows  rocks  and  stones  and  trees  with  life,  and  gives 
the  power  of  speech  to  animals. 

That  beasts  with  the  attributes  of  human  beings  should  figure  in 
these  tales  involves,  from  the  standpoint  of  primeval  man,  only  a 
very  slight  divergence  from  probability.  In  nothing,  perhaps,  has 
civilization  so  changed  us  as  in  our  mental  attitude  toward  animals. 
It  has  fixed  a  g^eat  gulf  between  us  and  them  —  a  gulf  far  greater 
than  that  which  divided  them  from  our  first  ancestors.  In  the  early 
ages  of  the  world,  when  men  lived  by  the  chase,  and  gnawed  the 
raw  flesh  of  their  prey,  and  slept  in  lairs  amid  the  jungle,  the  purely 
animal  virtues  were  the  only  ones  they  knew  and  exercised.  They 
adored  courage  and  strength,  and  swiftness  and  endurance.  They 
respected  keenness  of  scent  and  vision,  and  admired  cunning.  The 
possession  of  these  qualities  was  the  very  condition  of  exi.stence,  and 
they  valued  them  accordingly;  but  in  each  one  of  them  they  found 
their  equals,  and  in  fact  their  .  superiors,  among  the  brutes.  A  lion 
was  stronger  than  the  strongest  man.  The  hare  was  swifter.  The 
eagle  was  more  keen-sighted.  The  fox  was  more  cunning.  Hence, 
so  far  from  looking  down  upon  the  animals  from  the  remotely  supe- 
rior height  that  a  hundred  centuries  of  civilization  have  erected  for 
us,  the  primitive  savage  looked  up  to  the  beast,  studied  his  ways, 
copied  him,  and  went  to  school  to  him.  The  man,  then,  was  not  in 
those  days  the  lord  of  creation,  and  the  beast  was  not  his  servant; 
but  they  were  almost  brothers  in  the  subtle  sympathy  between  them, 
like  that  which  united  Mowgli,  the  wolf-nursed  shikarri,  and  his  hairy 
brethren,  in  that  most  weirdly  wonderful  of  all  Mr.  Kipling's  inven- 
tions—  the  one  that  carries  us  back,  not  as  his  other  stories  do,  to 
the  India  of  the  cities  and  the  bazaars,  of  the  supercilious  tourist  and 
the  sleek  Babu,  but  to  the  older  India  of  unbroken  jungle,  darkling 
at  noonday  through  its  green  mist  of  tangled  leaves,  and  haunted  by 
memories  of  the  world's  long  infancy  when  man  and  brute  crouched 
close  together  on  the  earthy  breast  of  the  great  mother. 

The  ^sopic  Fables,  then,  are  the  oldest  representative  that  we 
have  of  the  literary  art  of  primitive  man.  The  charm  that  they  have 
always  possessed  springs  in   part   from   their  utter   simplicity,    their 


204  ^SOP 

naivete,  and  their  directness;  and  in  part  from  the  fact  that  their 
teachings  are  the  teachings  of  universal  experience,  and  therefore 
appeal  irresistibly  to  the  consciousness  of  every  one  who  hears  them, 
whether  he  be  savage  or  scholar,  child  or  sage.  They  are  the  liter- 
ary antipodes  of  the  last  great  effort  of  genius  and  art  working  upon 
the  same  material,  and  found  in  Mr.  Kipling's  Jungle  Books.  The 
Fables  show  only  the  first  stirrings  of  the  literary  instinct,  the  Jungle 
Stories  bring  to  bear  the  full  development  of  the  Active  art,  —  creative 
imagination,  psychological  insight,  brilliantly  picturesque  description, 
and  the  touch  of  one  who  is  a  daring  master  of  vivid  language;  so 
that  no  better  theme  can  be  given  to  a  student  of  literary  history 
than  the  critical  comparison  of  these  two  allied  forms  of  composition, 
representing  as  they  do  the  two  extremes  of  actual  development. 

The  best  general  account  in  English  of  the  origin  of  the  Greek 
Fable  is  that  of  Rutherford  in  the  introduction  to  his  <Babrius> 
(London,  1883).  An  excellent  special  study  of  the  history  of  the 
<Esopic  Fables  is  that  by  Joseph  Jacobs  in  the  first  volume  of  his 
<uEsop>  (London,  1889).  The  various  ancient  accounts  of  -^sop's  life 
are  collected  by  Simrock  in  <^sops  Leben>  (1864).  The  best  sci- 
entific edition  of  the  two  hundred  and  ten  fables  is  that  of  Halm 
(Leipzig,  1887).  Good  disquisitions  on  their  history  during  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  are  those  of  Du  Meril  in  French  (Paris,  1854)  and  Bruno 
in  German  (Bamberg,  1892).  See  also  the  articles  in  the  present 
work  under  the  titles  ^Babrius,*  <Gay,*  <  Indian  Literature, >  <La  Fon- 
taine,* *Max  Mtiller,*  *Pilpay.* 


^,  C^.  f. 


JLCyfC 


THE   FOX  AND  THE   LION 

THE  first  time  the  Fox  saw  the  Lion,  he  fell  down  at  hiz  feet, 
and   was  ready  to   die   of  fear.     The  second   time,   he   took 
courage  and  could  even  bear  to  look  upon  him.      The  third 
time,  he  had  the  impudence  to  come  up  to  him,   to  salute  him, 
and  to  enter  into  familiar  conversation  with  him. 


THE  ASS   IN  THE   LION'S   SKIN 

AN  Ass,  finding  the  skin  of  a  Lion,  put  it  on;  and,  going  into 
the  woods  and  pastures,  threw  all  the  flocks  and  herds  into 
a  terrible   consternation.      At  last,    meeting  his  owner,    he 
would  have   frightened  him   also;  but  the   good  man,  seeing  his 


^SOP  205 

long  ears  stick  out,  presently  knew  him,  and  with  a  good  cudgel 
made  him  sensible  that,  notwithstanding  his  being  dressed  in  a 
Lion's  skin,  he  was  really  no  more  than  an  Ass. 


THE  ASS  EATING  THISTLES 

AN  Ass  was  loaded  with  good  provisions  of  several  sorts,  which, 
in  time  of  harvest,  he  was  carrying  into  the  field  for  his 
master  and  the  reapers  to  dine  upon.  On  the  way  he 
met  with  a  fine  large  thistle,  and  being  very  hungry,  began  to 
mumble  it;  which  while  he  was  doing,  he  entered  into  this 
reflection :  —  **  How  many  greedy  epicures  would  think  themselves 
happy,  amidst  such  a  variety  of  delicate  viands  as  I  now  carry! 
But  to  me  this  bitter,  prickly  thistle  is  more  savory  and  relishing 
than  the  most  exquisite  and  sumptuous  banquet." 


THE  WOLF   IN   SHEEP'S  CLOTHING 

A  Wolf,  clothing  himself  in  the  skin  of  a  sheep,  and  getting 
in  among  the  flock,  by  this  means  took  the  opportunity  to 
devour  many  of  them.  At  last  the  shepherd  discovered 
him,  and  cunningly  fastening  a  rope  about  his  neck,  tied  him  up 
to  a  tree  which  stood  hard  by.  Some  other  shepherds  happening 
to  pass  that  way,  and  observing  what  he  was  about,  drew  near, 
and  expressed  their  admiration  at  it.  **  What !  *  says  one  of  them, 
<*  brother,  do  you  make  hanging  of  a  sheep  ?  *  "  No,  *  replied  the 
other,  *but  I  make  hanging  of  a  Wolf  whenever  I  catch  him, 
though  in  the  habit  and  garb  of  a  sheep.**  Then  he  showed 
them  their  mistake,  and  they  applauded  the  justice  of  the  exe- 
cution. 

THE  COUNTRYMAN  AND  THE  SNAKE 

A  Villager,  in  a  frosty,  snowy  winter,  found  a  Snake  under  a 
hedge,  almost  dead  with  cold.  He  could  not  help  having 
a  compassion  for  the  poor  creature,  so  brought  it  home, 
and  laid  it  upon  the  hearth,  near  the  fire;  but  it  had  not  lain 
there  long,  before  (being  revived  with  the  heat)  it  began  to  erect 
itself,  and  fly  at  his  wife  and  children,  filling  the  whole  cottage 
with  dreadful  hissings.  The  Countryman  heard  an  outcry,  and 
perceiving  what  the  matter  was,  catched  up  a  mattock  and  soon 


2o6  ^SOP 

dispatched  him;  upbraiding  him  at  the  same  time  in  these 
words:  —  "Is  this,  vile  wretch,  the  reward  you  make  to  him  that 
saved  your  life  ?  Die  as  you  deserve ;  but  a  single  death  is  too 
good  for  you.*' 

THE   BELLY  AND  THE  MEMBERS 

IN  FORMER  days,  when  the  Belly  and  the  other  parts  of  the  body 
enjoyed  the  faculty  of  speech,  and  had  separate  views  and 
designs  of  their  own,  each  part,  it  seems,  in  particular  for 
himself,  and  in  the  name  of  the  whole,  took  exception  to  the 
conduct  of  the  Belly,  and  were  resolved  to  grant  him  supplies  no 
longer.  They  said  they  thought  it  very  hard  that  he  should  lead 
an  idle,  good-for-nothing  life,  spending  and  squandering  away, 
upon  his  own  ungodly  guts,  all  the  fruits  of  their  labor;  and 
that,  in  short,  they  were  resolved,  for  the  future,  to  strike  off  his 
allowance,  and  let  him  shift  for  himself  as  well  as  he  could.  The 
Hands  protested  they  would  not  lift  up  a  finger  to  keep  him  from 
starving;  and  the  Mouth  wished  he  might  never  speak  again  if 
he  took  in  the  least  bit  of  nourishment  for  him  as  long  as  he 
lived;  and,  said  the  Teeth,  may  we  be  rotten  if  ever  we  chew  a 
morsel  for  him  for  the  future.  This  solemn  league  and  covenant 
was  kept  as  long  as  anything  of  that  kind  can  be  kept,  which 
was  until  each  of  the  rebel  members  pined  away  to  skin  and 
bone,  and  could  hold  out  no  longer.  Then  they  found  there  was 
no  doing  without  the  Belly,  and  that,  idle  and  insignificant  as  he 
seemed,  he  contributed  as  much  to  the  maintenance  and  welfare 
of  all  the  other  parts  as  they  did  to  his. 


THE  SATYR  AND  THE  TRAVELER 

A  Satyr,  as  he  was  ranging  the  forest  in  an  exceeding  cold, 
snowy  season,  met  with  a  Traveler  half-starved  with  the 
extremity  of  the  weather.  He  took  compassion  on  him, 
and  kindly  invited  him  home  to  a  warm,  comfortable  cave  he  had 
in  the  hollow  of  a  rock.  As  soon  as  they  had  entered  and  sat 
down,  notwithstanding  there  was  a  good  fire  in  the  place,  the 
chilly  Traveler  could  not  forbear  blowing  his  fingers'  ends.  Upon 
the  Satyr's  asking  why  he  did  so,  he  answered,  that  he  did  it  to 
warm  his  hands.  The  honest  sylvan  having  seen  little  of  the 
world,  admired  a  man  who  was  master  of  so  valuable  a  quality  as 


yESOP 


207 


that  of  blowing  heat,  and  therefore  was  resolved  to  entertain  him 
in  the  best  manner  he  could.  He  spread  the  table  before  him 
with  dried  fruits  of  several  sorts;  and  produced  a  remnant  of 
cold  wine,  which  as  the  rigor  of  the  season  made  very  proper,  he 
mulled  with  some  warm  spices,  infused  over  the  fire,  and  pre- 
sented to  his  shivering  guest.  But  this  the  Traveler  thought  fit 
to  blow  likewise;  and  upon  the  Satyr's  demanding  a  reason  why 
he  blowed  again,  he  replied,  to  cool  his  dish.  This  second  an- 
swer provoked  the  Satyr's  indignation  as  much  as  the  first  had 
kindled  his  surprise:  so,  taking  the  man  by  the  shoulder,  he 
thrust  him  out  of  doors,  saying  he  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  a  wretch  who  had  so  vile  a  quality  as  to  blow  hot  and  cold 
with  the  same  mouth. 


THE  LION  AND  THE   OTHER  BEASTS 

THE  Lion  and  several  other  beasts  entered  into  an  alliance, 
offensive  and  defensive,  and  were  to  live  very  sociably  to- 
gether in  the  forest.  One  day,  having  made  a  sort  of  an 
excursion  by  way  of  hunting,  they  took  a  very  fine,  large,  fat 
deer,  which  was  divided  into  four  parts;  there  happening  to  be 
then  present  his  Majesty  the  Lion,  and  only  three  others.  After 
the  division  was  made,  and  the  parts  were  set  out,  his  Majesty, 
advancing  forward  some  steps  and  pointing  to  one  of  the  shares, 
was  pleased  to  declare  himself  after  the  lollowing  manner :  — 
^^This  I  seize  and  take  possession  of  as  my  right,  which  devolves 
to  me,  as  I  am  descended  by  a  true,  lineal,  hereditary  succession 
from  the  royal  family  of  Lion.  That  [pointing  to  the  second]  I 
claim  by,  I  think,  no  unreasonable  demand ;  considering  that  all  the 
engagements  you  have  with  the  enemy  turn  chiefly  upon  my 
courage  and  conduct,  and  you  very  well  know  that  wars  are  too 
expensive  to  be  carried  on  without  proper  supplies.  Then  [nod- 
ding his  head  toward  the  third]  that  I  shall  take  by  virtue  of  my 
prerogative-,,  to  which,  I  make  no  question  but  so  dutiful  and 
loyal  a  people  will  pay  all  the  deference  and  regard  that  I  can 
desire.  Now,  as  for  the  remaining  part,  the  necessity  of  our 
present  affairs  is  so  very  urgent,  our  stock  so  low,  and  our  credit 
so  impaired  and  weakened,  that  I  must  insist  upon  your  granting 
that,  without  any  hesitation  or  demur;  and  hereof  fail  not  at 
your  peril.  ^* 


2o8  ^SOP 


THE   ASS  AND   THE    LITTLE   DOG 

THE  Ass,  observing  how  great  a  favorite  the  Httle  Dog  was 
with  his  Master,  how  much  caressed  and  fondled,  and  fed 
with  good  bits  at  every  meal;  and  for  no  other  reason,  as 
he  could  perceive,  but  for  skipping  and  frisking  about,  wagging 
his  tail,  and  leaping  up  into  his  Master's  lap:  he  was  resolved  to 
imitate  the  same,  and  see  whether  such  a  behavior  would  not 
procure  him  the  same  favors.  Accordingly,  the  Master  was  no 
sooner  come  home  from  walking  about  his  fields  and  gardens, 
and  was  seated  in  his  easy-chair,  but  the  Ass,  who  observed  him, 
came  gamboling  and  braying  towards  him,  in  a  very  awkward 
manner.  The  Master  could  not  help  laughing  aloud  at  the  odd 
sight.  But  his  jest  was  soon  turned  into  earnest,  when  he  felt 
the  rough  salute  of  the  Ass's  fore-feet,  who,  raising  himself  upon 
his  hinder  legs,  pawed  against  his  breast  with  a  most  loving  air, 
and  would  fain  have  jumped  into  his  lap.  The  good  man,  terri- 
fied at  this  outrageous  behavior,  and  unable  to  endure  the  weight 
of  so  heavy  a  beast,  cried  out;  upon  which,  one  of  his  servants 
running  in  with  a  good  stick,  and  laying  on  heartily  upon  the 
bones  of  the  poor  Ass,  soon  convinced  him  that  every  one  who 
desires  it  is  not  qualified  to  be  a  favorite. 


THE  COUNTRY  MOUSE  AND  THE  CITY  MOUSE 

AN  HONEST,  plain,  sensible  Country  Mouse  is  said  to  have 
entertained  at  his  hole  one  day  a  fine  Mouse  of  the  Town. 
Having  formerly  been  playfellows  together,  they  were  old 
acquaintances,  which  served  as  an  apology  for  the  visit.  How- 
ever, as  master  of  the  house,  he  thought  himself  obliged  to  do 
the  honors  of  it  in  all  respects,  and  to  make  as  great  a  stranger 
of  his  guest  as  he  possibly  could.  In  order  to  do  this  he  set 
before  him  a  reserve  of  delicate  gray  pease  and  bacon,  a  dish  of 
fine  oatmeal,  some  parings  of  new  cheese,  and,  to  crown  all  with 
a  dessert,  a  remnant  of  a  charming  mellow  apple.  In  good  man- 
ners, he  forbore  to  eat  any  himself,  lest  the  stranger  should  not 
have  enough;  but  that  he  might  seem  to  bear  the  other  company, 
sat  and  nibbled  a  piece  of  a  wheaten  straw  very  busily.  At  last, 
says  the  spark  of  the  town :  —  ^*  Old  crony,  give  me  leave  to  be  a 
little  free   with    you;  how   can   you    bear    to  live  in  this  nasty. 


JESOP  209 

dirty,  melancholy  hole  here,  with  nothing  but  woods,  and  mead- 
ows, and  mountains,  and  rivulets  about  you  ?  Do  not  you  prefer 
the  conversation  of  the  world  to  the  chirping  of  birds,  and 
the  splendor  of  a  court  to  the  rude  aspect  of  an  uncultivated 
desert  ?  Come,  take  my  word  for  it,  you  will  find  it  a  change 
for  the  better.  Never  stand  considering,  but  away  this  moment. 
Remember,  we  are  not  immortal,  and  therefore  have  no  time  to 
lose.  Make  sure  of  to-day,  and  spend  it  as  agreeably  as  you  can: 
you  know  not  what  may  happen  to-morrow."  In  short,  these 
and  such  like  arguments  prevailed,  and  his  Country  Acquaintance 
was  resolved  to  go  to  town  that  night.  So  they  both  set  out 
upon  their  journey  together,  proposing  to  sneak  in  after  the  close 
of  the  evening.  They  did  so;  and  about  midnight  made  their 
entry  into  a  certain  great  house,  where  there  had  been  an  extra- 
ordinary entertainment  the  day  before,  and  several  tit-bits,  which 
some  of  the  servants  had  purloined,  were  hid  under  the  seat  of 
a  window.  The  Country  Guest  was  immediately  placed  in  the 
midst  of  a  rich  Persian  carpet:  and  now  it  was  the  Courtier's 
turn  to  entertain;  who  indeed  acqiiitted  himself  in  that  capacity 
with  the  utmost  readiness  and  address,  changing  the  courses  as 
elegantly,  and  tasting  everything  first  as  judiciously,  as  any 
clerk  of  the  kitchen.  The  other  sat  and  enjoyed  himself  like  a 
delighted  epicure,  tickled  to  the  last  degree  with  this  new  turn 
of  his  affairs;  when  on  a  sudden,  a  noise  of  somebody  opening 
the  door  made  them  start  from  their  seats,  and  scuttle  in  con- 
fusion about  the  dining-room.  Our  Country  Friend,  in  particular, 
was  ready  to  die  with  fear  at  the  barking  of  a  huge  mastiff  or 
two,  which  opened  their  throats  just  about  the  same  time,  and 
made  the  whole  house  echo.  At  last,  recovering  himself:  — 
"Well,"  says  he,  "if  this  be  your  town -life,  much  good  may  you 
do  with  it:  give  me  my  poor,  quiet  hole  again,  with  my  homely 
but  comfortable  gray  pease." 

THE   DOG  AND   THE  WOLF 

A  LEAN,    hungry,    half-starved  Wolf    happened,    one   moonshiny 
night,   to  meet   with   a   jolly,    plump,    well-fed  Mastiff;   and 
after  the  first  compliments  were   passed,   says  the  Wolf:  — 
"  You   look   extremely   well.       I   protest,    I   think   I   never  saw  a 
more  graceful,  comely  person;  but  how  comes  it  about,  I  beseech 
you,   that  you  should  live  so  much  better  th^j]   I  ?      I  may  say, 
I— 14 


2IO  '  ^SOP 

without  vanity,  that  I  venture  fifty  times  more  than  you  do; 
and  yet  I  am  almost  ready  to  perish  with  hunger.**  The  Dog 
answered  very  bluntly,  "Why,  you  may  live  as  well,  if  you  will 
do  the  same  for  it  that  I  do.  **  — "  Indeed  ?  what  is  that  ?  **  says 
he.  — "  Why,  **  says  the  Dog,  "  only  to  guard  the  house  a-nights, 
and  keep  it  from  thieves.**  —  "With  all  my  heart,**  replies  the 
Wolf,  "for  at  present  I  have  but  a  sorry  time  of  it;  and  I 
think  to  change  my  hard  lodging  in  the  woods,  where  I  endure 
rain,  frost,  and  snow,  for  a  warm  roof  over  my  head,  and  a 
bellyful  of  good  victuals,  will  be  no  bad  bargain.**  —  "True,** 
says  the  Dog ;  "  therefore  you  have  nothing  more  to  do  but  to 
follow  me.**  Now,  as  they  were  jogging  on  together,  the  Wolf 
spied  a  crease  in  the  Dog's  neck,  and  having  a  strange  curiosity, 
could  not  forbear  asking  him  what  it  meant,  "  Pooh !  nothing,  ** 
says  the  Dog.  —  "Nay,  but  pray — **  says  the  Wolf.  —  "Why,** 
says  the  Dog,  "if  you  must  know,  I  am  tied  up  in  the  daytime, 
because  I  am  a  little  fierce,  for  fear  I  should  bite  people,  and 
am  only  let  loose  a-nights.  But  this  is  done  with  design  to  make 
me  sleep  a-days,  more  than  anything  else,  and  that  I  may  watch 
the  better  in  the  night-time;  for  as  soon  as  ever  the  twilight 
appears,  out  I  am  turned,  and  may  go  where  I  please.  Then 
my  master  brings  me  plates  of  bones  from  the  table  with  his 
own  hands,  and  whatever  scraps  are  left  by  any  of  the  family, 
all  fall  to  my  share;  for  you  must  know  I  am  a  favorite  with 
everybody.  So  you  see  how  you  are  to  live.  Come,  come  along: 
what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  **  — "  No,  **  replied  the  Wolf,  "  I 
beg  your  pardon:  keep  your  happiness  all  to  yourself.  Liberty 
is  the  word  with  me;  and  I  would  not  be  a  king  upon  the  terms 
you  mention.*^ 


211 


JEAN   LOUIS   RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ 

(1807-1873) 

jT  FIRST,  when  a  mere  boy,  twelve  years  of  age,®  writes  the 
great  Swiss  naturalist,  "I  did  what  most  beginners  do.  I 
picked  up  whatever  I  could  lay  my  hands  on,  and  tried,  by 
such  books  and  authorities  as  I  had  at  my  command,  to  find  the 
names  of  these  objects.  My  highest  ambition  at  that  time,  was  to 
be  able  to  designate  the  plants  and  animals  of  my  native  country 
correctly  by  a  Latin  name,  and  to  extend  gradually  a  similar  knowl- 
edge in  its  application  to  the  productions  of  other  countries.  This 
seemed  to  me,  in  those  days,  the  legitimate  aim  and  proper  work  of 
a  naturalist.  I  still  possess  manuscript  volumes  in  which  I  entered 
the  names  of  all  the  animals  and  plants  with  which  I  became  ac- 
quainted, and  I  well  remember  that  I  then  ardently  hoped  to  acquire 
the  same  superficial  familiarity  with  the  whole  creation.  I  did  not 
then  know  how  much  more  important  it  is  to  the  naturalist  to  under- 
stand the  structure  of  a  few  animals  than  to  command  the  whole  field 
of  scientific  nomenclature.  Since  I  have  become  a  teacher,  and  have 
watched  the  progress  of  students,  I  have  seen  that  they  all  begin  in 
the  same  way.  But  how  many  have  grown  old  in  the  pursuit,  with- 
out ever  rising  to  any  higher  conception  of  the  study  of  nature, 
spending  their  life  in  the  determination  of  species,  and  in  extending 
scientific  terminology!  Long  before  I  went  to  the  university,  and 
before  I  began  to  study  natural  history  under  the  guidance  of  men 
who  were  masters  in  the  science  during  the  early  part  of  this  cen- 
tury, I  perceived  that  though  nomenclature  and  classification,  as  then 
understood,  formed  an  important  part  of  the  study,  being,  in  fact,  its 
technical  language,  the  study  of  living  beings  in  their  natural  ele- 
ment was  of  infinitely  greater  value.  At  that  age  —  namely,  about 
fifteen  —  I  spent  most  of  the  time  I  could  spare  from  classical  and 
mathematical  studies  in  hunting  the  neighboring  woods  and  meadows 
for  birds,  insects,  and  land  and  fresh-water  shells.  My  room  became 
a  little  menagerie,  while  the  stone  basin  under  the  fountain  in  our 
yard  was  my  reservoir  for  all  the  fishes  I  could  catch.  Indeed,  col- 
lecting, fishing,  and  raising  caterpillars,  from  which  I  reared  fresh, 
beautiful  butterflies,  were  then  my  chief  pastimes.  What  I  know 
of  the  habits  of  the  fresh-water  fishes  of  Central  Europe  I  mostly 
learned  at  that  time;  and  I  may  add,  that  when  afterward  I  obtained 
access  to  a  large  library  and  could  consult  the  works  of  Bloch  and 
Lacepede,  the   only  extensive  works  on   fishes  then  in  existence,  I 


aia  '  JEAN  LOUIS  RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ 

wondered  that  they  contained  so  little  about  their  habits,  natural 
attitudes,  and  mode  of  action,  with  which  I  was  so  familiar.*' 

It  is  this  way  of  looking  at  things  that  gives  to  Agassiz's  writings 
their  literary  and  popular  interest.  He  was  born  in  Mortier,  Canton 
Fribourg,  May  28th,  1807,  the  son  of  a  clergyman,  who  sent  his  gifted 
son  to  the  Universities  of  Zurich,  Heidelberg,  and  Munich,  where  he 
acquired  reputation  for  his  brilliant  powers,  and  entered  into  the 
enthusiastic,  intellectual,  and  merry  student-life,  taking  his  place  in 
the  formal  duels,  and  becoming  known  as  a  champion  fencer.  Agas- 
siz  was  an  influence  in  every  centre  that  he  touched;  and  in  Munich, 
his  room  and  his  laboratory,  thick  with  clouds  of  smoke  from  the 
long-stemmed  German  pipes,  was  a  gathering-place  for  the  young 
scientific  aspirants,  who  affectionately  called  it  <<The  Little  Academy. » 
At  the  age  of  twenty-two,  he  had  published  his  <  Fishes  of  Brazil,  >  a 
folio  that  brought  him  into  immediate  recognition.  Cuvier,  the  great- 
est ichthyologist  of  his  time,  to  whom  the  first  volume  was  dedicated, 
received  him  as  a  pupil,  and  gave  to  him  all  the  material  that  he 
had  been  collecting  during  fifteen  years  for  a  contemplated  work  on 
Fossil  Fishes.  In  Paris  Agassiz  also  won  the  friendship  of  Humboldt, 
who  learning  that  he  stood  in  need  of  money,  presented  him  with  so 
generous  a  sum  as  to  enable  the  ambitious  young  naturalist  to  work 
with  a  free  and  buoyant  spirit. 

His  practical  career  began  in  1832,  when  he  was  installed  at  Neuf- 
chatel,  from  which  point  he  easily  studied  the  Alps.  Two  years  later, 
after  the  <  Poissons  fossiles>  (Fossil  Fishes)  appeared,  he  visited  Eng- 
land to  lecture.  Then  returning  to  his  picturesque  home,  he  applied 
himself  to  original  investigation,  and  through  his  lectures  and  publi- 
cations won  honors  and  degrees.  His  daring  opinions,  however, 
sometimes  provoked  ardent  discussion  and  angry  comment. 

Agassiz's  passion  for  investigation  frequently  led  him  into  dangers 
that  imperiled  both  life  and  limb.  In  the  summer  of  1841,  for  exam- 
ple, he  was  lowered  into  a  deep  crevasse  bristling  with  huge  stalac- 
tites of  ice,  to  reach  the  heart  of  a  glacier  moving  at  the  rate  of 
forty  feet  a  day.  While  he  was  observing  the  blue  bands  on  the 
glittering  ice,  he  suddenly  touched  a  well  of  water,  and  only  after 
great  difficulty  made  his  companions  understand  his  signal  'for  rescue. 
Interesting  particulars  of  these  glacial  studies  (<  Etudes  des  Glaciers  *) 
were  soon  issued,  and  Agassiz  received  many  gifts  from  lovers  of 
science,  among  whom  was  numbered  the  King  of  Prussia.  His  zoo- 
logical and  geological  investigations  were  continue  and  important 
works  on  <  Fossil  MoUusks,'  <  Tertiary  Shells,  >  and  <  Living  and  Fossil 
Echinoderms'  date  from  this  period. 

He  had  long  desired  to  visit  America,  when  he  realized  this  wish 
in    1846   by   an   arrangement   with    the    Lowell    Institute   of    Boston^ 


JEAN   LOUIS  RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ  ^13 

where  he  gave  a  series  of  lectures,  afterwards  repeated  in  various 
cities.  So  attractive  did  he  find  the  fauna  and  flora  of  America,  and 
so  vast  a  field  did  he  perceive  here  for  his  individual  studies  and 
instruction,  that  he  returned  the  following  year.  In  1848  the  Prussian 
government,  which  had  borne  the  expenses  of  his  scientific  mission, 
—  a  cruise  along  our  Atlantic  coast  to  study  its  marine  life,  —  released 
him  from  further  obligation  that  he  might  accept  the  chair  of  geol- 
ogy in  the  Lawrence  Scientific  School  of  Harvard  University.  His 
cruises,  his  explorations,  and  his  methods,  combined  with  his  attractive 
personality,  gave  him  unique  power  as  a  teacher;  and  many  of 
his  biographers  think  that  of  all  his  gifts,  the  ability  to  instruct  Avas 
the  most  conspicuous.  He  needed  no  text-books,  for  he  went  directly 
to  Nature,  and  did  not  believe  in  those  technical,  dry-as-dust  terms 
which  lead  to  nothing  and  which  are  swept  away  by  the  next  gener- 
ation. Many  noted  American  men  of  science  remember  the  awaken- 
ing influence  of  his  laboratories  in  Charleston  and  Cambridge,  his 
museum  at  Harvard,  and  his  summer  school  at  Penikese  Island  in 
Buzzard's  Bay,  Massachusetts,  where  natural  history  was  studied 
under  ideal  conditions.  It  was  here  that  he  said  to  his  class: — *A 
laboratory  of  natural  history  is  a  sanctuary  where  nothing  profane 
should  be  tolerated.*'  Whittier  has  left  a  poem  called  "The  Prayer 
of  Agassiz,'*  describing 

«The  isle  of  Penikese 
Ranged  about  by  ">apphire  seas.» 

Just  as  he  was  realizing  two  o_  his  ambitions,  the  establishment 
of  a  gfreat  museum  and  a  practical  school  of  zoology,  he  died,  Decem- 
ber 14th,  1873,  at  his  home  in  Cambridge,  and  was  buried  at  Mount 
Auburn  beneath  pine-trees  sent  from  Switzerland,  while  a  bowlder 
from  the  glacier  of  the  Aar  was  selected  to  mark  his  resting-place. 

Agassiz  was  greatly  beloved  by  his  pupils  and  associates,  and  was 
identified  with  the  brilliant  g^oup —^  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Holmes,  and 
Lowell, — each  of  whom  has  written   of  him.      Lowell    considered  his 

*  Elegy  on  Agassiz,*  written  in  Florence  in  1874,  among  his  best 
verses ;  Longfellow  wrote  a  poem  for  *■  The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of 
Agassiz,*  and  Holmes  <A  Farewell  to  Agassiz*  on  his  departure  for 
the  Andes,  whose  affectionate  and  humorous  strain  thus  closca:  — 

*<Till  ttieir  gionous  raid  is  Oci. 
And  they  touch  our  ransomed  shore! 
Then  the  welcome  of  a  nation, 
With  its  shout  of  exultation, 

•  .  Shall  awake  the  dumb  creation, 

And  the  shapes  of  buried  aeons 
Join  the  living  creatures'  paeans, 
While  the  mighty  megalosaurus 
Leads  the  palaeozoic  chorus.— 


21 .  JEAN  LOUIS  RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ 

God  bless  the  great  Professor, 
And  the  land  its  proud  possessor, — 
Bless  them  now  and  evermore!* 

Numerous  biographies  and  monographs  of  Agassiz  exist  in  many 
languages,  a  complete  list  of  which  is  given  in  the  last  published 
*Life  of  Agassiz,*  by  Jules  Marcou  (New  York  and  London,  1896), 
and  also  in  the  <  Life  of  Agassiz,  >  by  Charles  F.  Holder  (New  York, 
1893).  Complete  lists  of  Agassiz's  works  are  also  given  in  these  bio- 
graphies, and  these  titles  show  how  versatile  was  his  taste  and  how 
deep  and  wide  his  research.  His  principal  contributions  to  science 
are  in  French  and  Latin,  but  his  most  popular  books  appeared  in 
English.  These  include  <The  Structure  of  Animal  Life,*  < Methods  of 
Study,*  <  Geological  Sketches,*  and  *  Journey  in  Brazil,*  the  latter 
written  with  Mrs.  Agassiz.  His  <  Contributions  to  the  Natural  History 
of  the  United  States,*  planned  to  be  in  ten  large  books,  only  reached 
four  volumes. 

In  his  < Researches  concerning  Fossil  Fishes,*  Agassiz  expressed 
the  views  that  made  him  a  lifelong  opponent  of  the  Darwinian 
theories,  although  he  was  a  warm  friend  of  Darwin.  Considering 
the  demands  upon  his  time  as  teacher,  lecturer,  and  investigator, 
the  excellence  not  less  than  the  amount  of  the  great  naturalist's 
work  is  remarkable,  and  won  such  admiration  that  he  was  made  a 
member  of  nearly  every  scientific  society  in  the  world.  One  of  his 
favorite  pastimes  was  deep-sea  dredging,  which  embraced  the  excite- 
ment of  finding  strange  Specimens  and  studying  their  singular  habits. 

Of  his  love  and  gift  for  instructing,  Mrs.  Agassiz  says  in  her 
<Life*  (Boston,   1885):  — 

« Teaching  was  a  passion  with  him,  and  his  power  over  his  pupils  might 
be  measured  by  his  own  enthusiasm.  He  was,  intellectually  as  well  as  socially, 
a  democrat  in  the  best  sense.  He  delighted  to  scatter  broadcast  the  highest 
results  of  thought  and  research,  and  to  adapt  them  even  to  the  youngest  and 
most  uninformed  minds.  In  his  later  American  travels  he  would  talk  of  gla- 
cial phenomena  to  the  driver  of  a  country  stage-coach  among  the  mountains, 
or  to  some  workman  splitting  rock  at  the  roadside,  with  as  much  earnestness 
as  if  he  had  been  discussing  problems  with  a  brother  geologist;  he  would 
take  the  common  fisherman  into  his  scientific  confidence,  telling  him  the  inti- 
mate secrets  of  fish-culture  or  fish-embryology,  till  the  man  in  his  turn  grew 
enthusiastic  and  began  to  pour  out  information  from  the  stores  of  his  own 
rough  and  untaught  habits  of  observation.  Agassiz's  general  faith  in  the 
susceptibility  of  the  popular  intelligence,  however  untaught,  to  the  highest 
truths  of  nature,  was  contagious,  and  he  created  or  developed  that  in  which 
he  believed. » 

The  following  citations  exhibit  his  powers  of  observation,  arid  that 
happy  method  of  stating  scientific  facts  which  interests  the  specialist 
and  general  reader  alike. 


JEAN   LOUIS  RODOLPHE   AGASSIZ  215 

THE  SILURIAN  BEACH 

From  <  Geological  Sketches  > 

WITH  what  interest  do  we  look  upon  any  relic  of  early 
human  history!  The  monument  that  tells  of  a  civiliza- 
tion whose  hieroglyphic  records  we  cannot  even  decipher, 
the  slightest  trace  of  a  nation  that  vanished  and  left  no  sign  of 
its  life  except  the  rough  tools  and  utensils  buried  in  the  old  site 
of  its  towns  or  villages,  arouses  our  imagination  and  excites  our 
curiosity.  Men  gaze  with  awe  at  the  inscription  on  an  ancient 
Egyptian  or  Assyrian  stone;  they  hold  with  reverential  touch  the 
yellow  parchment-roll  whose  dim,  defaced  characters  record  the 
meagre  learning  of  a  buried  nationality;  and  the  announcement 
that  for  centuries  the  tropical  forests  of  Central  America  have 
hidden  within  their  tangled  growth  the  ruined  homes  and  tem- 
ples of  a  past  race,  stirs  the  civilized  world  with  a  strange,  deep 
wonder. 

To  me  it  seems,  that  to  look  on  the  first  land  that  was  ever 
lifted  above  the  wasted  waters,  to  follow  the  shore  where  the 
earliest  animals  and  plants  were  created  when  the  thought  of  God 
first  expressed  itself  in  organic  forms,  to  hold  in  one's  hand  a  bit 
of  stone  from  an  old  sea-beach,  hardened  into  rock  thousands  of 
centuries  ago,  and  studded  with  the  beings  that  once  crept  upon 
its  surface  or  were  stranded  there  by  some  retreating  wave,  is 
even  of  deeper  interest  to  men  than  the  relics  of  their  own  race, 
for  these  things  tell  more  directly  of  the  thoughts  and  creative 
acts  of  God. 

The  statement  that  different  sets  of  animals  and  plants  have 
characterized  the  successive  epochs  is  often  understood  as  indi- 
cating a  difference  of  another  kind  than  that  which  distinguishes 
animals  now  living  in  different  parts  of  the  world.  This  is  a  mis- 
take. They  are  so-called  representative  types  all  over  the  globe, 
united  to  each  other  by  structural  relations  and  separated  by 
specific  differences  of  the  same  kind  as  those  that  unite  and  sep- 
arate animals  of  different  geological  periods.  Take,  for  instance, 
mud-flats  or  sandy  shores  in  the  same  latitudes  of  Europe  and 
America:  we  find  living  on  each,  animals  of  the  same  structural 
character  and  of  the  same  general  appearance,  but  with  certain 
specific  differences,  as  of  color,  size,  external  appendages,  etc. 
They  represent  each  other  on  the  two  continents.  The  American 
wolves,  foxes,  bears,  rabbits,  are  not  the  same  as  the  European, 


2i6  JEAN  LOUIS  RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ 

but  those  of  one  continent  are  as  true  to  their  respective  types  as 
those  of  the  other;  under  a  somewhat  different  aspect  they  repre- 
sent the  same  groups  of  animals.  In  certain  latitudes,  or  under 
conditions  of  nearer  proximity,  these  differences  may  be  less 
marked.  It  is  well  known  that  there  is  a  great  monotony  of 
type,  not  only  among  animals  and  plants  but  in  the  human  races 
also,  throughout •  the  Arctic  regions;  and  some  animals  character- 
istic of  the  high  North  reappear  under  such  identical  forms  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  snow-fields  in  lofty  mountains,  that  to 
trace  the  difference  between  the  ptarmigans,  rabbits,  and  other 
gnawing  animals  of  the  Alps,  for  instance,  and  those  of  the 
Arctics,  is  among  the  most  difficult  problems  of  modem  science. 

And  so  is  it  also  with  the  animated  world  of  past  ages:  in 
similar  deposits  of  sand,  mud,  or  lime,  in  adjoining  regions  of 
the  same  geological  age,  identical  remains  of  animals  and  plants 
may  be  found;  while  at  greater  distances,  but  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances, representative  species  may  occur.  In  very  remote 
regions,  however,  whether  the  circumstances  be  similar  or  dis- 
similar, the  general  aspect  of  the  organic  world  differs  greatly, 
remoteness  in  space  being  thus  in  some  measure  an  indication  of 
the  degree  of  affinity  between  different  faunae.  In  deposits  of 
different  geological  periods  immediately  following  each  other,  we 
sometimes  find  remains  of  animals  and  plants  so  closely  allied  to 
those  of  earlier  or  later  periods  that  at  first  sight  the  specific  dif- 
ferences are  hardly  discernible.  The  difficulty  of  solving  these 
questions,  and  of  appreciating  correctly  the  differences  and  simi- 
larities between  such  closely  allied  organisms,  explains  the  antago- 
nistic views  of  many  naturalists  respecting  the  range  of  existence 
of  animals,  during  longer  or  shorter  geological  periods;  and  the 
superficial  way  in  which  discussions  concerning  the  transition  of 
species  are  carried  on,  is  mainly  owing  to  an  ignorance  of  the 
conditions  above  alluded  to.  My  own  personal  observation  and 
experience  in  these  matters  have  led  me  to  the  conviction  that 
every  geological  period  has  had  its  own  representatives,  and  that 
no  single  species  has  been  repeated  in  successive  ages. 

The  laws  regulating  the  geographical  distribution  of  animals, 
and  their  combination  into  distinct  zoological  provinces  called  fau- 
nae, with  definite  limits,  are  very  imperfectly  understood  as  yet; 
but  so  closely  are  all  things  linked  together  from  the  beginning 
till  to-day,  that  I  am  convinced  we  shall  never  find  the  clew 
to    their    meaning    till    we    carry    on    our    investigations   in  the 


JEAN  LOUIS  RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ  217 

past  and  the  present  simultaneously.  The  same  principle  accord- 
ing to  which  animal  and  vegetable  life  is  distributed  over  the 
surface  of  the  earth  now,  prevailed  in  the  earliest  geological 
periods.  The  geological  deposits  of  all  times  have  had  their 
characteristic  faunae  under  various  zones,  their  zoological  prov- 
inces presenting  special  combinations  of  animal  and  vegetable 
life  over  certain  regions,  and  their  representative  types  repro- 
ducing in  different  countries,  but  under  similar  latitudes,  the 
same  groups  with  specific  differences. 

Of  course,  the  nearer  we  approach  the  beginning  of  organic 
life,  the  less  marked  do  we  find  the  differences  to  be;  and  for  a 
very  obvious  reason.  The  inequalities  of  the  earth's  surface,  her 
mountain-barriers  protecting  whole  continents  from  the  Arctic 
winds,  her  open  plains  exposing  others  to  the  full  force  of  the 
polar  blasts,  her  snug  valleys  and  her  lofty  heights,  her  table- 
lands and  rolling  prairies,  her  river-systems  and  her  dry  deserts, 
her  cold  ocean-currents  pouring  down  from  the  high  North  on 
some  of  her  shores,  while  warm  ones  from  tropical  seas  carry 
their  softer  influence  to  others, — in  short,  all  the  contrasts  in  the 
external  configuration  of  the  globe,  with  the  physical  conditions 
attendant  upon  them,  are  naturally  accompanied  by  a  correspond- 
ing variety  in  animal  and  vegetable  life. 

But  in  the  Silurian  age,  when  there  were  no  elevations  higher 
than  the  Canadian  hills,  when  water  covered  the  face  of  the 
earth  with  the  exception  of  a  few  isolated  portions  lifted  above 
the  almost  universal  ocean,  how  monotonous  must  have  been  the 
conditions  of  life!  And  what  should  we  expect  to  find  on  those 
first  shores  ?  If  we  are  walking  on  a  sea-beach  to-day,  we  do  not 
look  for  animals  that  haunt  the  forests  or  roam  over  the  open 
plains,  or  for  those  that  live  in  sheltered  valleys  or  in  inland 
regions  or  on  mountain-heights.  We  look  for  Shells,  for  Mussels 
and  Barnacles,  for  Crabs,  for  Shrimps,  for  Marine  Worms,  for 
Star-Fishes  and  Sea-Urchins,  and  we  may  find  here  and  there  a 
fish  stranded  on  the  sand  or  strangled  in  the  sea- weed.  Let  us 
remember,  then,  that  in  the  Silurian  period  the  world,  so  far  as 
it  was  raised  above  the  ocean,  was  a  beach;  and  let  us  seek 
there  for  such  creatures  as  God  has  made  to  live  on  seashores, 
and  not  belittle  the  Creative  work,  or  say  that  He  first  scattered 
the  seeds  of  life  in  meagre  or  stinted  measure,  because  we  do 
not  find  air-breathing  animals  when  there  was  no  fitting  atmo- 
sphere to  feed  their  lungs,  insects  with  no  terrestrial  plants  to 


2l8  JEAN  LOUIS  RODOLPHE   AGASSIZ 

live  Upon,  reptiles  without  marshes,  birds  without  trees,  cattle 
without  grass, —  all  things,  in  short,  without  the  essential  con- 
ditions for  their  existence,     .     .     . 

I  have  spoken  of  the  Silurian  beach  as  if  there  were  but  one, 
not  only  because  I  wished  to  limit  my  sketch,  and  to  attempt 
at  least  to  give  it  the  vividness  of  a  special  locality,  but  also 
because  a  single  such  shore  will  give  us  as  good  an  idea  of  the 
characteristic  fauna  of  the  time  as  if  we  drew  our  material  from 
a  wider  range.  There  are,  however,  a  great  number  of  parallel 
ridges  belonging  to  the  Silurian  and  Devonian  periods,  running 
from  east  to  west,  not  only  through  the  State  of  New  York,  but 
far  beyond,  through  the  States  of  Michigan  and  Wisconsin  into 
Minnesota;  one  may  follow  nine  or  ten  such  successive  shores  in 
unbroken  lines,  from  the  neighborhood  of  Lake  Champlain  to  the 
Far  West.  They  have  all  the  irregularities  of  modem  seashores, 
running  up  to  form  little  bays  here,  and  jutting  out  in  promonto- 
ries there.     .     .     . 

Although  the  early  geological  periods  are  more  legible  in 
North  America,  because  they  are  exposed  over  such  extensive 
tracts  of  land,  yet  they  have  been  studied  in  many  other  parts 
of  the  globe.  In  Norway,  in  Germany,  in  France,  in  Russia,  in 
Siberia,  in  Kamchatka,  in  parts  of  South  America,  —  in  short, 
wherever  the  civilization  of  the  white  race  has  extended,  Silurian 
deposits  have  been  observed,  and  everywhere  they  bear  the  same 
testimony  to  a  profuse  and  varied  creation.  The  earth  was 
teeming  then  with  life  as  now;  and  in  whatever  corner  of  its 
surface  the  geologist  finds  the  old  strata,  they  hold  a  dead  fauna 
as  numerous  as  that  which  lives  and  moves  above  it.  Nor  do  we 
find  that  there  was  any  gradual  increase  or  decrease  of  any 
organic  forms  at  the  beginning  and  close  of  the  successive 
periods.  On  the  contrary,  the  opening  scenes  of  every  chapter 
in  the  world's  history  have  been  crowded  with  life,  and  its  last 
leaves  as  full  and  varied  as  its  first. 

VOICES 

From  <  Methods  of  Study  in  Natural  History  > 

THERE  is  a  chapter  in  the  Natural  History  of  animals  that  has 
hardly  been  touched  upon  as  yet,  and  that  will  be  especially 
interesting  with   reference  to  families.      The  voices  of  ani- 
mals   have    a    family    character    not    to    be    mistaken.      All    the 


JEAN  LOUIS  RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ  21 9 

Canidce  bark  and  howl!  —  the  fox,  the  wolf,  the  dog,  have  the 
same  kind  of  utterance,  though  on  a  somewhat  different  pitch. 
All  the  bears  growl,  from  the  white  bear  of  the  Arctic  snows  to 
the  small  black  bear  of  the  Andes.  All  the  cats  meow,  from  our 
quiet  fireside  companion  to  the  lions  and  tigers  and  panthers  of 
the  forests  and  jungle.  This  last  may  seem  a  strange  assertion; 
but  to  any  one  who  has  listened  critically  to  their  sounds  and 
analyzed  their  voices,  the  roar  of  the  lion  is  but  a  gigantic  meow, 
bearing  about  the  same  proportion  to  that  of  a  cat  as  its  stately 
and  majestic  form  does  to  the  smaller,  softer,  more  peaceful 
aspect  of  the  cat.  Yet  notwithstanding  the  difference  in  their 
size,  who  can  look  at  the  lion,  whether  in  his  more  sleepy  mood, 
as  he  lies  curled  up  in  the  corner  of  his  cage,  or  in  his  fiercer 
moments  of  hunger  or  of  rage,  without  being  reminded  of  a 
cat  ?  And  this  is  not  merely  the  resemblance  of  one  carnivorous 
animal  to  another;  for  no  one  was  ever  reminded  of  a  dog  or 
wolf  by  a  lion. 

Again,  all  the  horses  and  donkeys  neigh;  for  the  bray  of  a 
donkey  is  only  a  harsher  neigh,  pitched  on  a  difEerent  key,  it  is 
true,  but  a  sound  of  the  same  character  —  as  the  donkey  himself 
is  but  a  clumsy  and  dwarfish  horse.  All  the  cows  low,  from  the 
buffalo  roaming  the  prairie,  the  musk-ox  of  the  Arctic  ice-fields, 
or  the  yak  of  Asia,  to  the  cattle  feeding  in  our  pastures. 

Among  the  birds,  this  similarity  of  voice  in  families  is  still 
more  marked.  We  need  only  recall  the  harsh  and  noisy  parrots, 
so  similar  in  their  peculiar  utterance.  Or,  take  as  an  example 
the  web-footed  family:  Do  not  all  the  geese  and  the  innumerable 
host  of  ducks  quack  ?  Does  not  every  member  of  the  crow  fam- 
ily caw,  whether  it  be  the  jackdaw,  the  jay,  or  the  magpie,  the 
rook  in  some  green  rookery  of  the  Old  World,  or  the  crow  of 
our  woods,  with  its  long,  melancholy  caw  that  seems  to  make  the 
silence  and  solitude  deeper  ?  Compare  all  the  sweet  warblers  of 
the  songster  family  —  the  nightingales,  the  thrushes,  the  mocking- 
birds, the  robins;  they  differ  in  the  greater  or  less  perfection  of 
their  note,  but  the  same  kind  of  voice  runs  through  the  whole 
group. 

These  affinities  of  the  vocal  systems  among  the  animals  form 
a  subject  well  worthy  of  the  deepest  study,  not  only  as  another 
character  by  which  to  classify  the  animal  kingdom  correctly,  but 
as  bearing  indirectly  also  on  the  question  of  the  origin  of  ani- 
mals.    Can  we   suppose  that  characteristics  like  these  have  been 


2  20  JEAN   LOUIS  RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ 

communicated  from  one  animal  to  another  ?  When  we  find  that 
all  the  members  of  one  zoological  family,  however  widely  gcat- 
tered  over  the  surface  of  the  earth,  inhabiting  different  continents 
and  even  different  hemispheres,  speak  with  one  voice,  must  we 
not.  believe  that  they  have  originated  in  the  places  where  they 
now  occur,  with  all  their  distinctive  peculiarities  ?  Who  taught 
the  American  thrush  to  sing  like  his  European  relative  ?  He 
surely  did  not  learn  it  from  his  cousin  over  the  waters.  Those 
who  would  hav^e  us  believe  that  all  animals  originated  from  com- 
mon centres  and  single  pairs,  and  have  been  thence  distributed 
over  the  world,  will  find  it  difficult  to  explain  the  tenacity  of 
such  characters,  and  their  recurrence  and  repetition  imder  circum- 
stances that  seem  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  any  communication, 
on  any  other  supposition  than  that  of  their  creation  in  the  differ- 
ent regions  where  they  are  now  found.  We  have  much  yet  to 
learn,  from  investigations  of  this  kind,  with  reference  not  only  to 
families  among  animals,  but  to  nationalities  among  men  also.  .  .  . 
The  similarity  of  motion  in  families  is  another  subject  well 
worth  the  consideration  of  the  naturalist:  the  soaring  of  the  birds 
of  prey, — the  heavy  flapping  of  the  wings  in  the  gallinaceous 
birds, —  the  floating  of  the  swallows,  with  their  short  cuts  and  an- 
gular turns, — the  hopping  of  the  sparrows, —  the  deliberate  walk  of 
the  hens  and  the  strut  of  the  cocks, — the  waddle  of  the  ducks  and 
geese, —  the  slow,  heavy  creeping  of  the  land-turtle, — the  graceful 
flight  of  the  sea-turtle  under  the  water, — the  leaping  and  swim- 
ming of  the  frog, —  the  swift  run  of  the  lizard,  like  a  flash  of 
green  or  red  light  in  the  sunshine, —  the  lateral  imdulation  of  the 
serpent, — the  dart  of  the  pickerel, — the  leap  of  the  trout, — the 
rush  of  the  hawk-moth  through  the  air, — the  fluttering  flight  of 
the  butterfly, —  the  quivering  poise  of  the  humming-bird, — the 
arrow-like  shooting  of  the  squid  through  the  water, —  the  slow 
crawling  of  the  snail  on  the  land, —  the  sideway  movement  of 
the  sand-crab, — the  backward  walk  of  the  crawfish, — the  almost 
imperceptible  gliding  of  the  sea-anemone  over  the  rock, — the 
graceful,  rapid  motion  of  the  Pleurobrachia^  with  its  endless 
change  of  curve  and  spiral.  In  short,  every  family  of  animals 
has  its  characteristic  action  and  its  peculiar  voice;  and  yet  so  lit- 
tle is  this  endless  variety  of  rhythm  and  cadence  both  of  motion 
and  sound  in  the  organic  world  understood,  that  we  lack  words  to 
express  one-half  its  richness  and  beauty. 


JEAN   LOUIS  RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ  221 

FORMATION   OF  CORAL   REEFS 

From  < Methods  of  Study  in   Natural  History* 

FOR  a  long  time  it  was  supposed  that  the  reef-builders  inhabited 
very  deep  waters;  for  they  were  sometimes  brought  up  upon 
sounding-lines  from  a  depth  of  many  hundreds  or  even 
thousands  of  feet,  and  it  was  taken  for  granted  that  they  must 
have  had  their  home  where  they  were  found:  but  the  facts 
recently  ascertained  respecting  the  subsidence  of  ocean-bottoms 
have  shown  that  the  foundation  of  a  coral-wall  may  have  sunk 
far  below  the  place  where  it  was  laid.  And  it  is  now  proved, 
beyond  a  doubt,  that  no  reef -building  coral  can  thrive  at  a  depth 
of  more  than  fifteen  fathoms,  though  corals  of  other  kinds  occur 
far  lower,  and  that  the  dead  reef-corals,  sometimes  brought  to 
the  surface  from  much  greater  depths,  are  only  broken  fragments 
of  some  reef  that  has  subsided  with  the  bottom  on  which  it  was 
growing.  But  though  fifteen  fathoms  is  the  maximum  depth  at 
which  any  reef-builder  can  prosper,  there  are  many  which  will 
not  sustain  even  that  degree  of  pressure;  and  this  fact  has,  as 
we  shall  see,  an  important  influence  on  the  structure  of  the  reel. 

Imagine  now  a  sloping  shore  on  some  tropical  coast  descending 
gradually  below  the  surface  of  the  sea.  Upon  that  slope,  at  a 
depth  of  from  ten  to  twelve  or  fifteen  fathoms,  and  two  or  three 
or  more  miles  from  the  mainland,  according  to  the  shelving  of 
the  shore,  we  will  suppose  that  one  of  those  little  coral  animals, 
to  whom  a  home  in  such  deep  waters  is  congenial,  has  established 
itself.  How  it  happens  that  such  a  being,  which  we  know  is 
immovably  attached  to  the  ground,  and  forms  the  foundation  of 
a  solid  wall,  was  ever  able  to  swim  freely  about  in  the  water  till 
it  found  a  suitable  resting-place,  I  shall  explain  hereafter,  when 
I  say  something  of  the  mode  of  reproduction  of  these  animals. 
Accept,  for  the  moment,  my  unsustained  assertion,  and  plant  our 
little  coral  on  this  sloping  shore,  some  twelve  or  fifteen  fathoms 
below  the  surface  of  the  sea. 

The  internal  structure  of  such  a  coral  corresponds  to  that  of 
the  sea-anemone.  The  body  is  divided  by  vertical  partitions  from 
top  to  bottom,  leaving  open  chambers  between;  while  in  the 
centre  hangs  the  digestive  cavity,  connected  by  an  opening  in  the 
bottom  with  all  these  chambei-s.  At  the  top  is  an  aperture  serv- 
ing as  a  mouth,  surrounded  by  a  wreath  of  hollow  tentacles,  each 


222  JEAN   LOUIS  RODOLPHE   AGASSIZ 

one  of  which  connects  at  its  base  with  one  of  the  chambers,  so 
that  all  parts  of  the  animal  communicate  freely  with  each  other. 
But  though  the  structure  of  the  coral  is  identical  in  all  its  parts 
with  the  sea-anemone,  it  nevertheless  presents  one  important 
difference.  The  body  of  the  sea-anemone  is  soft,  while  that  of 
the  coral  is  hard. 

It  is  well  known  that  all  animals  and  plants  have  the  power 
of  appropriating  to  themselves  and  assimilating  the  materials  they 
need,  each  selecting  from  the  surrounding  elements  whatever 
contributes  to  its  well-being.  Now,  corals  possess  in  an  extraor- 
dinary degree,  the  power  of  assimilating  to  themselves  the  lime 
contained  in  the  salt  water  around  them;  and  as  soon  as  our  little 
coral  is  established  on  a  firm  foundation,  a  lime  deposit  begins  to 
form  in  all  the  walls  of  its  body,  so  that  its  base,  its  partitions, 
and  its  outer  wall,  which  in  the  sea-anemone  remain  always  soft, 
become  perfectly  solid  in  the  polyp  coral,  and  form  a  frame  as 
hard  as  bone. 

It  may  naturally  be  asked  where  the  lime  comes  from  in  the 
sea  which  the  corals  absorb  in  such  quantities.  As  far  as  the 
living  corals  are  concerned  the  answer  is  easy,  for  an  immense 
deal  of  lime  is  brought  down  to  the  ocean  by  rivers  that  wear 
away  the  lime  deposits  through  which  they  pass.  The  Mississippi, 
whose  course  lies  through  extensive  lime  regions,  brings  down 
yearly  lime  enough  tp  supply  all  the  animals  living  in  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico.  But  behind  this  lies  a  question,  not  so  easily  settled,  as 
to  the  origin  of  the  extensive  deposits  of  limestone  found  at  the 
very  beginning  of  life  upon  earth.  This  problem  brings  us  to  the 
threshold  of  astronomy;  for  the  base  of  limestone  is  metallic  in 
character,  susceptible  therefore  of  fusion,  and  may  have  formed  a 
part  of  the  materials  of  our  earth,  even  in  an  incandescent  state, 
when  the  worlds  were  forming.  But  though  this  investigation  as 
to  the  origin  of  lime  does  not  belong  either  to  the  naturalist  or  the 
geologist,  its  suggestion  reminds  us  that  the  time  has  come  when 
all  the  sciences  and  their  results  are  so  intimately  connected  that 
no  one  can  be  carried  on  independently  of  the  others.  Since  the 
study  of  the  rocks  has  revealed  a  crowded  life  whose  records  are 
hoarded  within  them,  the  worlc  of  the  geologist  and  the  naturalist 
has  become  one  and  the  same;  and  at  that  border-land  where  the 
first  crust  of  the  earth  was  condensed  out  of  the  igneous  mass  of 
materials  which  formed  its  earliest  condition,  their  investigation 
mingles  with   that   of  the   astronomer,    and   we   cannot  trace  the 


JEAN  LOUIS  RODOLPHE  AGASSIZ 


223 


limestone  in  a  little  coral  without  going  back  to  the  creation  of 
our  solar  system,  when  the  worlds  that  compose  it  were  thrown 
off  from  a  central  mass  in  a  gaseous  condition. 

When  the  coral  has  become  in  this  way  permeated  With  lime, 
all  parts  of  the  body  are  rigid,  with  the  exception  of  the  upper 
margin,  the  stomach,  and  the  tentacles.  The  tentacles  are  soft 
and  waving,  projected  or  drawn  in  at  will;  they  retain  their  flex- 
ible character  through  life,  and  decompose  when  the  animal  dies. 
For  this  reason  the  dried  specimens  of  corals  preserved  in 
museums  do  not  give  us  the  least  idea  of  the  living  corals,  in 
which  every  one  of  the  millions  of  beings  composing  such  a  com- 
munity is  crowned  by  a  waving  wreath  of  white  or  green  or 
rose-colored  tentacles. 

As  soon  as  the  little  coral  is  fairly  established  and  solidly 
attached  to  the  ground,  it  begins  to  bud.  This  may  take  place 
in  a  variety  of  ways,  dividing  at  the  top  or  budding  from  the 
base  or  from  the  sides,  till  the  primitive  animal  is  surrounded  by 
a  number  of  individuals  like  itself,  of  which  it  forms  the  nucleus, 
and  which  now  begin  to  bud  in  their  turn,  each  one  surrounding 
itself  with  a  numerous  progeny,  all  remaining,  however,  attached 
to  the  parent.  Such  a  community  increases  till  its  individuals  are 
numbered  by  millions,  and  I  have  myself  counted  no  less  than 
fourteen  millions  of  individuals  in  a  coral  mass  of  Porites  meas- 
uring not  more  than  twelve  feet  in  diameter.  The  so-called  coral 
heads,  which  make  the  foundation  of  a  coral  wall,  and  seem  by 
their  massive  character  and  regular  form  especially  adapted  to 
give  a  strong,  solid  base  to  the  whole  structure,  are  known  in 
our  classification  as  the  Astrceans^  so  named  on  account  of  the 
little  [star-shaped]  pits  crowded  upon  their  surface,  each  one  of 
which  marks  the  place  of  a  single  more  or  less  isolated  individual 
in  such  a  community. 

Selections  used  by  permission   of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &   Company,  Publishers. 


224 

AGATHIAS 

(536-581) 

jGATHiAS  tells  US,  in  his  <  Prooemitiin,  >  that  he  was  born  at 
Myrina,  Asia  Minor,  that  his  father's  name  was  Memnonius, 
and  his  own  profession  the  law  of  the  Romans  and  practice 
in  courts  of  justice.  He  was  born  about  A.  D.  536,  and  was  educated 
at  Alexandria.  In  Constantinople  he  studied  and  practiced  his  pro- 
fession, and  won  his  surname  of  **  Scholasticus,  '^  a  title  then  given  to  a 
lawyer.  He  died,  it  is  believed,  at  the  age  of  forty-four  or  forty-five. 
He  was  a  Christian,  as  he  testifies  in  his  epigrams.  In  the  sketch 
of  his  life  prefixed  to  his  works,  Niebuhr  collates  the  friendships  he 
himself  mentions,  with  his  fellow-poet  Paulus  Silentiarius,  with  Theo- 
dorus  the  decemvir,  and  Macedonius  the  ex-consul.  To  these  men 
he  dedicated  some  of  his  writings. 

Of  his  works,  he  says  in  his  *Prooemium>  that  he  wrote  in  his 
youth  the  ^Daphniaca,*  a  volume  of  short  poems  in  hexameters,  set 
off  with  love-tales.  His  < Anthology,*  or  <Cyclus,>  was  a  collection  of 
poems  of  early  writers,  and  also  compositions  of  his  friend  Paulus 
Silentiarius  and  others  of  his  time.  A  number  of  his  epigrams,  pre- 
served because  they  were  written  before  or  after  his  publication  of 
the  ^Cyclus,*  have  come  down  to  us  and  are  contained  in  the  *An- 
thologia  Graeca.*  His  principal  work  is  his  ^Historia,*  which  is  an 
account  of  the  conquest  of  Italy  by  Narses,  of  the  first  war  between 
the  Greeks  and  Franks,  of  the  great  earthquakes  and  plagues,  of  the 
war  between  the  Greeks  and  Persians,  and  the  deeds  of  Belisarius  in 
his  contest  with  the  Huns, — of  all  that  was  happening  in  the  world 
Agathias  knew  between  553  and  558  A.  D.,  while  he  was  a  young 
man.  He  tells,  for  instance,  of  the  rebuilding  of  the  great  Church  of 
St.  Sophia  by  Justinian,  and  he  adds :  —  *^  If  any  one  who  happens  to 
live  in  some  place  remote  from  the  city  wishes  to  get  a  clear  notion 
of  every  part,  as  though  he  were  there,  let  him  read  what  Paulus 
[Silentiarius]  has  composed  in  hexameter  verse.'* 

The  history  of  Agathias  is  valuable  as  a  chronicle.  It  shows  that 
the  writer  had  little  knowledge  of  geography,  and  was  not  enough  of 
a  philosopher  to  look  behind  events  and  trace  the  causes  from  which 
they  proceeded.  He  is  merely  a  simple  and  honest  writer,  and  his 
history  is  a  business-like  entry  of  facts.  He  dwells  upon  himself  and 
his  wishes  with  a  minuteness  that  might  seem  self-conscious,  but  is 
really  nai/;  and  goes  so  far  in  his  outspokenness  as  to  say  that  if 
for  the  sake  of  a  livelihood  he  took  up  another  profession,  his  taste 
would  have  led  him  to  devote  himself  to  the  Muses  and  Graces. 


GRACE  AGUILAR  225 

He  wrote  in  tlie  Ionic  dialect  of  his  time.  The  best  edition  of  his 
*HistoTia>  is  that  of  Niebuhr  (1828).  Those  of  his  epigrams  pre- 
served in  the  Greek  anthology  have  not  infrequently  been  turned 
into  English;  the  happiest  translation  of  all  is  that  of  Dryden,  in  his 
«Life  of  Plutarch.* 

ON   PLUTARCH 

CHERONEAN  Plutarch,  to  thy  deathless  praise 
Does  martial  Rome  this  grateful  statue  raise; 
Because  both  Greece  and  she  thy  fame  have  shar'd 
(Their  heroes  written,  and  their  lives  compar'd); 
But  thou  thyself  could'st  never  write  thy  own: 
Their  lives  have  parallels,  but  thine  has  none. 


GRACE  AGUILAR 

(1816-1847) 

^FTY  years  ago  a  Jewish  writer  of  English  fiction  was  a  new 
and  interesting  figure  in  English  literature.  Disraeli,  indeed, 
had  flashed  into   the   literary  world  with  ^Coningsby,*  that 

eloquent   vindication  of  the   Jewish   race.     His   grandoise   *Tancred* 

had  revealed  to  an  astonished  public  the  strange  life  of  the  Desert, 

of  the  mysterious  vastness  whence  swept  forth  the  tribes  who  became 

the   Moors   of   Spain  and  the  Jews  of  Palestine.     Disraeli,  however, 

stood  in  no  category,  and  established  no  precedent.     But  when  Miss 

Aguilar's  stories  began  to  appear,  they  were 

eagerly  welcomed  by  a  public  with  whom 

she  had  already  won  reputation  and  favor 

as  the  defender  and  interpreter  of  her  faith. 
The  youngest  child  of  a  rich  and  refined 

household,  Grace  Aguilar  was  bom  in   18 16 

at  Hackney,  near  London,  of  that  historic 

strain   of   Spanish-Jewish    blood   which   for 

generations  had  produced  not  only  beauty 

and  artistic  sensibility,  but  intellect.     Her 

ancestors  were  refugees  from   persecution, 

and  m  her  burned  that  ardor  of  faith  which 

persecution  kindles.      Fragile  and  sensitive, 

she  was  educated  at  home,  by  her  cultivated 

father  and  mother,  under  whose  solicitous  training  she  developed  an 

alarming  precocity.     At  the  age  of  twelve  she  had  written  a  heroic 
I— 15 


Grace  Agutlar 


226  '-  GRACE   AGUILAR 

drama  on  her  favorite  hero,  Gustavus  Vasa.  At  fourteen  she  had 
published  a  volume  of  poems.  At  twenty-four  she  accomplished  her 
chief  work  on  the  Jewish  religion,  <The  Spirit  of  Judaism.  >  a  book 
republished  in  America  with  preface  and  notes  by  a  well-known 
rabbi.  Dr.  Isaac  Leeser  of  Philadelphia.  Although  the  orthodox  priest 
found  much  in  the  book  to  criticize,  he  was  forced  to  commend  its 
ability.  It  insists  on  the  importance  of  the  spiritual  and  moral ' 
'aspects  of  the  faith  delivered  to  Abraham,  and  deprecates  a  super- 
stitious reverence  for  the  mere  letter  of  the  law.  It  presents  Judaism 
as  a  religion  of  love,  and  the  Old  Testament  as  the  inspiration  of  the 
teachings  of  Jesus.  Written  more  than  half  a  century  ago,  the  book 
is  widely  read  to-day  by  students  of  the  Jewish  religion. 

Four  years  later  Miss  Aguilar  published  *The  Jewish  Faith:  Its 
Spiritual  Consolation,  Moral  Guidance,  and  Immortal  Hope,*  and  *The 
Women  of  Israel,*  a  series  of  essays  on  Biblical  history,  which  was 
followed  by  < Essays  and  Miscellanies.*  So  great  was  the  influence  of 
her  writings  that  the  Jewesses  of  London  gave  her  a  public  testi- 
monial, and  addressed  her  as  "the  first  woman  who  had  stood  forth 
as  the  public  advocate  of  the  faith  of  Israel.**  While  on  her  way  to 
visit  a  brother  then  residing  at  Schwalbach,  Germany,  she  was  taken 
ill  at  Frankfurt,  and  died  there,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-one. 

The  earliest  and  the  best  known  of  Miss  Aguilar's  novels  is 
*Home  Influence,*  which  rapidly  passed  through  thirty  editions,  and 
is  still  a  favorite  book  with  young  girls.  There  is  little  incident  in 
the  story,  which  is  the  history  of  the  development  of  character  in  a 
household  of  six  or  seven  young  persons  of  very  different  endow- 
ments and  tendencies.  It  was  the  fashion  of  the  day  to  be  didactic, 
and  Mrs.  Hamilton,  from  whom  the  *home  influence**  radiates,  seems 
to  the  modern  reader  somewhat  inclined  to  preach,  in  season  and  out 
of  season.  But  the  story  is  interesting,  and  the  characters  are  dis- 
tinctly individualized,  while  at  least  one  episode  is  dramatically 
treated. 

<The  Mother's  Recompense*  is  a  sequel  to  <Home  Influence,* 
wherein  the  further  fortunes  of  the  Hamilton  family  are  so  set  forth 
that  the  wordly-minded  reader  is  driven  to  the  inference  that  the 
brilliant  marriages  of  her  children  are  a  sensible  part  of  Mrs.  Hamil- 
ton's <<  recompense.  **     The  story  is  vividly  and  agreeably  told. 

Of  a  different  order  is  *  The  Days  of  Bruce,  *  a  historic  romance  of 
the  late  thirteenth  century,  which  is  less  historic  than  romantic,  and 
in  whose  mirror  the  rugged  chieftain  would  hardly  recognize  his 
angularities. 

<  The  Vale  of  Cedars  *  is  a  historic  tale  of  the  persecution  of  the 
Jews  in  Spain  under  the  Inquisition.  It  is  told  with  intense  feeling, 
with  much  imagination,  and  with  a  strong  love   of  local  color.     It  is 


GRACE  AGUILAR  227 

said  that  family  traditions  are  woven  into  the  story.  This  book,  as 
well  as  <Home  Influence,*  had  a  wide  popularity  in  a  German  version. 

In  reading  Grace  Aguilar  it  is  not  easy  to  believe  her  the  contem- 
porary of  Currer  Bell  and  George  Eliot.  Both  her  manner  and  her 
method  are  earlier.  Her  lengthy  and  artificial  periods,  the  rounded 
and  decorative  sentences  that  she  puts  into  the  mouths  of  her  charac- 
ters under  the  extremest  pressure  of  emotion  or  suffering,  the  italics, 
the  sentimentalities,  are  of  another  age  than  the  sinewy  English  and 
hard  sense  of  *  Jane  Eyre  *  or  <  Adam  Bede.  *  Doubtless  her  peculiar,, 
sheltered  training,  her  delicate  health,  and  a  luxuriant  imagination 
that  had  seldom  been  measured  against  the  realities  of  life,  account 
for  the  old-fashioned  air  of  her  work.  But  however  antiquated  their 
form  may  become,  the  substance  of  all  her  tales  is  sweet  and  sound, 
their  charm  for  young  girls  is  abiding,  their  atmosphere  is  pure,  and 
the  spirit  that  inspires  them  is  touched  only  to  fine  issues. 

The  citation  from  <  The  Days  of  Bruce  >  illustrates  her  narrative 
style ;  that  from  <  Woman's  Friendship  >  her  habit  of  disquisition ;  and 
the  passage  from  <  Home  Influence  *  her  rendering  of  conversation. 


THE  GREATNESS   OF  FRIENDSHIP 

From  <  Woman's   Friendship  > 

IT  IS  the  fashion  to  deride  woman's  influence  over  woman,  to 
laugh  at  female  friendship,  to  look  with  scorn  on  all  those 
who  profess  it;  but  perhaps  the  world  at  large  little  knows 
the  effect  of  this  influence, — ^how  often  the  unformed  character  of 
a  young,  timid,  and  gentle  girl  may  be  influenced  for  good  or  evil 
by  the  power  of  an  intimate  female  friend.  There  is  always  to 
me  a  doubt  of  the  warmth,  the  strength,  and  purity  of  her  feel- 
ings, when  a  young  girl  merges  into  womanhood,  passing  over 
the  threshold  of  actual  life,  seeking  only  the  admiration  of  the 
other  sex;  watching,  pining,  for  a  husband,  or  lovers,  perhaps, 
and  looking  down  on  all  female  friendship  as  romance  and  folly. 
No  young  spirit  was  ever  yet  satisfied  with  the  love  of  nature. 
Friendship,  or  love,  gratifies  self-love;  for  it  tacitly  acknowl- 
edges that  we  must  possess  some  good  qualities  to  attract  beyond 
the  mere  love  of  nature.  Coleridge  justly  observes,  *^that  it  is 
well  ordered  that  the  amiable  and  estimable  should  have  a  fainter 
perception  of  their  own  qualities  than  their  friends  have,  other- 
wise they  would  love  themselves.*  Now,  friendship,  or  love,  per- 
mits   their  doing  this  unconsciously:   mutual   affection   is  a  tacit 


228  GRACE  AGUELAR 

avowal  and  appreciation  of  mutual  good  qualities, — perhaps 
friendship  yet  more  than  love,  for  the  latter  is  far  more  an  aspi- 
ration, a  passion,  than  the  former,  and  influences  the  permanent 
character  much  less.  Under  the  magic  of  love  a  girl  is  generally 
in  a  feverish  state  of  excitement,  often  in  a  wrong  position, 
deeming  herself  the  goddess,  her  lover  the  adorer;  whereas  it 
is  her  will  that  must  bend  to  his,  herself  be  abnegated  for  him. 
Friendship  neither  permits  the  former  nor  demands  the  latter.  It 
influences  silently,  often  unconsciously;  perhaps  its  power  is  never 
known  till  years  afterwards.  A  girl  who  stands  alone,  without 
acting  or  feeling  friendship,  is  generally  a  cold  unamiable  being, 
so  wrapt  in  self  as  to  have  no  room  for  any  person  else,  except 
perhaps  a  lover,  whom  she  only  seeks  and  values  as  offering 
his  devotion  to  that  same  idol,  self.  Female  friendship  may  be 
abused,  may  be  but  a  name  for  gossip,  letter-writing,  romance, 
nay  worse,  for  absolute  evil:  but  that  Shakespeare,  the  mighty 
wizard  of  human  hearts,  thought  highly  and  beautifully  of  female 
friendship,  we  have  his  exquisite  portraits  of  Rosalind  and  Celia, 
Helen  and  the  Countess,  undeniably  to  prove;  and  if  he,  who 
could  portray  every  human  passion,  every  subtle  feeling  of 
humanity,  from  the  whelming  tempest  of  love  to  the  fiendish 
influences  of  envy  and  jealousy  and  hate;  from  the  incompre- 
hensible mystery  of  Hamlet's  wondrous  spirit,  to  the  simplicity 
of  the  gentle  Miranda,  the  dove-like  innocence  of  Ophelia,  who 
could  be  crushed  by  her  weight  of  love,  but  not  reveal  it;  —  if 
Shakespeare  scorned  not  to  picture  the  sweet  influences  of  female 
friendship,  shall  women  pass  by  it  as  a  theme  too  tame,  too  idle 
for  their  pens  ? 

THE   ORDER   OF   KNIGHTHOOD 
From  <The  Days  of  Bruce* 

ARIGHT  noble  and  glorious  scene  did  the  great  hall  of  the  pal- 
ace present  the  morning  which  followed  this  eventful  night. 
The  king,  surrounded  by  his  highest  prelates  and  nobles, 
mingling  indiscriminately  with  the  high-born  dames  and  maidens 
of  his  court,  all  splendidly  attired,  occupied  the  upper  part  of  the 
hall,  the  rest  of  which  was  crowded  by  both  his  military  fol- 
lowers and  many  of  the  good  citizens  of  Scone,  who  flocked  in 
^eat  numbers  to  behold  the  august  ceremony  of  the  day.  Two 
immense    oaken   doors   at  the   south   side   of  the   hall   were  flung 


GRACE  AGUILAR 


339 


open,  and  through  them  was  discerned  the  large  space  forming 
the  palace  yard,  prepared  as  a  tilting-ground,  where  the  new- 
made  knights  were  to  prove  their  skill.  The  storm  had  given 
place  to  a  soft,  breezy  morning,  the  cool  freshness  of  which 
appeared  peculiarly  grateful  from  the  oppressiveness  of  the  night; 
light  downy  clouds  sailed  over  the  blue  expanse  of  heaven,  tem- 
pering without  clouding  the  brilliant  rays  of  the  sun.  Every 
face  was  clothed  with  smiles,  and  the  loud  shouts  which  hailed 
the  youthfvil  candidates  for  knighthood,  as  they  severally  entered, 
told  well  the  feeling  with  which  the  patriots  of  Scotland  were 
regarded. 

Some  twenty  youths  received  the  envied  honor  at  the  hand 
of  their  sovereign  this  day;  but  our  limits  forbid  a  minute 
scrutiny  of  the  bearing  of  any,  however  well  deserving,  save  of 
the  two  whose  vigils  have  already  detained  us  so  long.  A  yet 
longer  and  louder  shout  proclaimed  the  appearance  of  the 
youngest  scion  of  the  house  of  Bruce  and  his  companion.  The 
daring  patriotism  of  Isabella  of  Buchan  had  enshrined  her  in 
every  heart,  and  so  disposed  all  men  towards  her  children  that 
the  name  of  their  traitorous  father  was  forgotten. 

Led  by  their  godfathers,  Nigel  by  his  brother-in-law  Sir 
Christopher  Seaton,  and  Alan  by  the  Earl  of  Lennox,  their 
swords,  which  had  been  blessed  by  the  abbot  at  the  altar,  slung 
round  their  necks,  they  advanced  up  the  hall.  There  was  a 
glow  on  the  cheek  of  the  young  Alan,  in  which  pride  and 
modesty  were  mingled;  his  step  at  first  was  unsteady  and  his 
lip  was  seen  to  quiver  from  very  bashfulness,  as  he  first  glanced 
round  the  hall  and  felt  that  every  eye  was  turned  toward  him; 
but  when  that  glance  met  his  mother's  fixed  on  him,  and  breath- 
ing that  might  of  love  that  filled  her  heart,  all  boyish  tremors 
fled,  the  calm,  staid  resolve  of  manhood  took  the  place  of  the 
varying  glow  upon  his  cheek,  the  quivering  lip  became  com- 
pressed and  firm,  and  his  step  faltered  not  again. 

The  cheek  of  Nigel  Bruce  was  pale,  but  there  was  firmness 
in  the  glance  of  his  bright  eye,  and  a  smile  unclouded  in  its 
joyance  on  his  lip.  The  frivolous  lightness  of  the  courtier,  the 
mad  bravado  of  knight-errantry,  which  was  not  uncommon  to 
the  times,  indeed,  were  not  there.  It  was  the  quiet  courage  of 
the  resolved  warrior,  the  calm  of  a  spirit  at  peace  with  itself, 
shedding  its  own  high  feeling  and  poetic  glory  over  all  arotmd 
him. 


23©  '  GRACE  AGUILAR 

On  reaching  the  foot  of  King  Robert's  throne,  both  youths 
knelt  and  laid  their  sheathed  swords  at  his  feet.  Their  armor- 
bearers  then  approached,  and  the  ceremony  of  clothing  the  can- 
didates in  steel  commenced;  the  golden  spur  was  fastened  on  the 
left  foot  of  each  by  his  respective  godfather,  while  Athol,  Hay, 
and  other  nobles  advanced  to  do  honor  to  the  youths,  by  aiding 
in  the  ceremony.     Nor  was  it  warriors  alone. 

**  Is  this  permitted,  lady  ?  '*  demanded  the  king,  smiling,  as 
the  Countess  of  Buchan  approached  the  martial  group,  and, 
aided  by  Lennox,  fastened  the  polished  cuirass  on  the  form  of 
her  son.  <*  Is  it  permitted  for  a  matron  to  arm  a  youthful 
knight  ?     Is  there  no  maiden  to  do  such  inspiring  office  ?  ** 

<^Yes,  when  the  knight  is  one  like  this,  my  liege,*  she 
answered,  in  the  same  tone.  **  Let  a  matron  arm  him,  good  my 
liege, *^  she  added,  sadly:  ^^et  a  mother's  hand  enwrap  his  boyish 
limbs  in  steel,  a  mother's  blessing  mark  him  thine  and  Scot- 
land's, that  those  who  watch  his  bearing  in  the  battle-field  may 
know  who  sent  him  there,  may  thrill  his  heart  with  memories 
of  her  who  stands  alone  of  her  ancestral  line,  that  though  he 
bears  the  name  of  Comyn,  the  blood  of  Fife  flows  reddest  in  his 
veins !  * 

^*Arm  him  and  welcome,  noble  lady,*  answered  the  king,  and 
a  buzz  of  approbation  ran  through  the  hall;  <<and  may  thy  noble 
spirit  and  dauntless  loyalty  inspire  him:  we  shall  not  need  a 
trusty  follower  while  such  as  he  are  around  us.  Yet,  in  very 
deed,  my  youthful  knight  must  have  a  lady  fair  for  whom  he 
tilts  to-day.  Come  hither,  Isoline,  thou  lookest  verily  inclined 
to  envy  thy  sweet  friend  her  office,  and  nothing  loth  to  have  a 
loyal  knight  thyself.  Come,  come,  my  pretty  one,  no  blushing 
now.     Lennox,  guide  those  tiny  hands  aright.* 

Laughing  and  blushing,  Isoline,  the  daughter  of  Lady  Camp- 
bell, a  sister  of  the  Bruce,  a  graceful  child  of  some  thirteen 
summers,  advanced  nothing  loth,  to  obey  her  royal  uncle's  sum- 
mons;  and  an  arch  smile  of  real  enjoyment  irresistibly  stole  over 
the  countenance  of  Alan,  dispersing  the  emotion  his  mother's 
words  produced. 

"Nay,  tremble  not,  sweet  one,*  the  king  continued,  in  a 
lower  and  yet  kinder  tone,  as  he  turned  from  the  one  youth  to 
the  other,  and  observed  that  Agnes,  overpowered  by  emotion, 
had  scarcely  power  to  perform  her  part,  despite  the  whispered 
words  of  encouraging  affection  Nigel  murmured  in  her  ear.     One 


GRACE  AGUILAR  23 1 

T)y  one  the  cuiniss  and  shoulder-pieces,  the  greaves  and  gaunt- 
lets, the  gorget  and  brassards,  the  joints  of  which  were  so  beau- 
tifully burnished  that  they  shone  as  mirrors,  and  so  flexible  that 
every  limb  had  its  free  use,  enveloped  those  manly  forms.  Their 
swords  once  again  girt  to  their  sides,  and  once  more  kneeling, 
the  king  descended  from  his  throne,  alternately  dubbing  them 
knight  in  the  name  of  God,  St.  Michael,  and  St.  George. 

THE   CULPRIT  AND   THE  JUDGE 
From  <Home  Influence* 

MRS.  Hamilton  was  seated  at  one  of  the  tables  on  the  dais 
nearest  the  oriel  window,  the  light  from  which  fell  on  her, 
giving  her  figure  —  though  she  was  seated  naturally  enough 
in  one  of  the  large  maroon-velvet  oaken  chairs  —  an  unusual 
effect  of  dignity  and  command,  and  impressing  the  terrified 
beholder  with  such  a  sensation  of  awe  that  had  her  life  depended 
on  it,  she  could  not  for  that  one  minute  have  gone  forward;  and 
even  when  desired  to  do  so  by  the  words  **  I  desired  your  pres- 
ence, Ellen,  because  I  wished  to  speak  to  you:  come  here  with- 
out any  more  delay,* — how  she  walked  the  whole  length  of  that 
interminable  room,  and  stood  facing  her  aunt,  she  never  knew. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  for  a  full  minute  did  not  speak,  but  she  fixed 
that  searching  look,  to  which  we  have  once  before  alluded,  upon 
Ellen's  face;  and  then  said,  in  a  tone  which,  though  very  low 
and  calm,  expressed  as  much  as  that  earnest  look:  — 

"Ellen!  is  it  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you  why  you  are  here — . 
necessary  to  produce  the  proof  that  my  words  are  right,  and  that 
you  have  been  influenced  by  the  fearful  effects  of  some  uncon- 
fessed  and  most  heinous  sin  ?     Little  did  I  dream  its  nature,  '* 

For  a  moment  Ellen  stood  as  turned  to  stone,  as  white  and 
rigfid  —  the  next  she  had  sunk  down  with  a  wild,  bitter  cry,  at 
Mrs.  Hamilton's  feet,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Is  it  true  —  can  it  be  true  —  that  you,  offspring  of  my  own 
sister;  dear  to  me,  cherished  by  me  as  my  own  child  —  you  have 
been  the  guilty  one  to  appropriate,  and  conceal  the  appropriation 
of  money,  which  has  been  a  source  of  distress  by  its  loss,  and 
the  suspicion  thence  proceeding,  for  the  last  seven  weeks  ?  —  that 
you  could  listen  to  your  uncle's  words,  absolving  his  whole 
household  as  incapable  of  a  deed  which  was  actual  theft,  and 
yet,  by  neither  word  nor  sign,  betray  remorse  or  guilt  ?  —  could 


232 


GRACE  AGUILAR 


behold  the  innocent  suffering,  the  fearful  misery  of  suspicion, 
loss  of  character,  without  the  power  of  clearing  himself,  and 
stand  calmly,  heedlessly  by  —  only  proving  by  your  hardened 
and  rebellious  temper  that  all  was  not  right  within  —  Ellen,  can 
this  be  true  ?  ^* 

*  Yes !  *  was  the  reply,  but  with  such  a  fearful  effort  that  her 
slight  frame  shook  as  with  an  ague :  ^^  thank  God  that  it  is  known ! 
I  dared  not  bring  down  the  punishment  on  myself;  but  I  can  bear 
it.» 

*This  is  mere  mockery,  Ellen:  how  dare  I  believe  even  this 
poor  evidence  of  repentance,  with  the  recollection  of  your  past 
conduct  ?    What  were  the  notes  you  found  ?  * 

Ellen  named  them. 

*'  Where  are  they  ?  —  This  is  but  one,  and  the  smallest.  *- 

Ellen's  answer  was  scarcely  audible. 

**  Used  them  —  and  for  what  ?  *^ 

There  was  no  answer;  neither  then  nor  when  Mrs.  Hamilton 
sternly  reiterated  the  question.     She  then  demanded:  — 

*^  How  long  have  they  been  in  your  possession  ?  * 

*^  Five  or  six  weeks ; "  but  the  reply  was  so  tremulous  it  car- 
ried no  conviction  with  it. 

"  Since  Robert  told  his  story  to  your  uncle,  or  before  ?  * 

«  Before. » 

<*  Then  your  last  answer  was  a  falsehood,  EUen :  it  is  full  seven 
weeks  since  my  hilsband  addressed  the  household  on  the  subject. 
You  could  not  have  so  miscounted  time,  with  such  a  deed  to  date 
by.     Where  did  you  find  them  ? " 

Ellen  described  the  spot. 

<*  And  what  business  had  you  there  ?  You  know  that  neither 
you  nor  your  cousins  are  ever  allowed  to  go  that  way  to  Mrs. 
Langford's  cottage,  and  more  especially  alone.  If  you  wanted  to 
see  her,  why  did  you  not  go  the  usual  way  ?  And  when  was 
this? — you  must  remember  the  exact  day.  Your  memory  is  not 
in  general  so  treacherous." 

Again  Ellen  was  silent. 

*^  Have  you  forgotten  it  ? " 

She  crouched  lower  at  her  aunt's  feet,  but  the  answer  was 
audible  — «  No. » 

"Then  answer  me,  Ellen,  this  moment,  and  distinctly:  for 
what  purpose  were  you  seeking  Mrs.  Langford's  cottage  by  that 
forbidden  path,  and  when  ? " 


GRACE  AGUILAR  235 

**  I  wanted  money,  and  I  went  to  ask  her  to  take  my  trinkets 
— my  watch,  if  it  must  be  —  and  dispose  of  them  as  I  had  read  of 
others  doing,  as  miserable  as  I  was;  and  the  wind  blew  the  notes 
to  my  very  hand,  and  I  used  them.  I  was  mad  then;  I  have 
been  mad  since,  I  believe;  but  I  would  have  returned  the  whole 
amount  to  Robert  if  I  could  have  but  parted  with  my  trinkets 
in  time." 

To  describe  the  tone  of  utter  despair,  the  recklessness  as  to 
the  effect  her  words  would  produce,  is  impossible.  Every  word 
increased  Mrs.  Hamilton's  bewilderment  and  misery.  To  suppose 
that  EUen  did  not  feel  was  folly.  It  was  the  very  depth  of 
wretchedness  which  was  crushing'  her  to  earth,  but  every  answered 
and  unanswered  question  but  deepened  the  mystery,  and  rendered 
her  judge's  task  more  difficult. 

*And  when  was  this,  Ellen?  I  will  have  no  more  evasion — 
tell  me  the  exact  day.** 

But  she  asked  in  vain.  Ellen  remained  moveless  and  silent  as 
the  dead. 

After  several  minutes  Mrs.  Hamilton  removed  her  hands  from 
her  face,  and  compelling  her  to  lift  up  her  head,  gazed  search- 
ingly  on  her  death-like  countenance  for  some  moments  in  utter 
silence,  and  then  said,  in  a  tone  that  Ellen  never  in  her  life 
forgot :  — 

"You  cannot  imagine,  Ellen,  that  this  half  confession  will 
either  satisfy  me,  or  in  the  smallest  degree  redeem  yoiir  sin. 
One,  and  one  only  path  is  open  to  you;  for  all  that  you  have 
said  and  left  unsaid  but  deepens  your  apparent  g^ilt,  and  so 
blackens  your  conduct,  that  I  can  scarcely  believe  I  am  address- 
ing the  child  I  so  loved — and  could  still  so  love,  if  but  one  real 
sign  be  given  of  remorse  and  penitence  —  one  hope  of  retumiog 
truth.  But  that  sign,  that  hope,  can  only  be  a  full  confession. 
Terrible  as  is  the  guilt  of  appropriating  so  large  a  sum,  granted 
it  came  by  the  merest  chance  into  your  hand;  dark  as  is  the  addi- 
tional sin  of  concealment  when  an  innocent  person  was  suffer- 
ing— something  still  darker,  more  terrible,  must  be  concealed 
behind  it,  or  you  would  not,  could  not,  continue  thus  obdurately 
silent.  I  can  believe  that  under  some  heavy  pressure  of  misery, 
some  strong  excitement,  the  sum  might  have  been  used  without 
thought,  and  that  fear  might  have  prevented  the  confession  of 
anything  so  dreadful;  but  what  was  this  heavy  necessity  for 
money,    this    strong    excitement?    What    fearful    and   mysterious 


234 


GRACE  AGUILAR 


difficulties  have  you  been  led  into  to  call  for  either?  Tell  me 
the  truth,  Ellen,  the  whole  truth;  let  me  have  some  hope  of  sav- 
ing you  and  myself  the  misery  of  publicly  declaring  you  the 
guilty  one,  and  so  proving  Robert's  innocence.  Tell  me  what 
difficulty,  what  misery  so  maddened  you,  as  to  demand  the  dis- 
posal of  your  trinkets.  If  there  be  the  least  excuse,  the  smallest 
possibility  of  your  obtaining  in  time  forgiveness,  I  will  grant  it. 
I  will  not  believe  you  so  utterly  fallen.  I  will  do  all  I  can  to 
remove  error,  and  yet  to  prevent  suffering;  but  to  win  this,  I 
must  have  a  full  confession  —  every  question  that  I  put  to  you 
must  be  clearly  and  satisfactorily  answered,  and  so  bring  back  the 
only  comfort  to  yourself,  and  hope  to  me.  Will  you  do  this, 
Ellen  ? » 

"  Oh  that  I  could !  *^  was  the  reply  in  such  bitter  anguish,  Mrs, 
Hamilton  actually  shuddered.  **But  I  cannot  —  must  not  —  dare 
not.  Aunt  Emmeline,  hate  me;  condemn  me  to  the  severest, 
sharpest  suffering;  I  wish  for  it,  pine  for  it:  you  cannot  loathe 
me  more  than  I  do  myself,  but  do  not  —  do  not  speak  to  me  in 
these  kind  tones  —  I  cannot  bear  them.  It  was  because  I  knew 
what  a  wretch  I  am,  that  I  have  so  shunned  you.  I  was  not 
worthy  to  be  with  you ;  oh,  sentence  me  at  once !  I  dare  not 
answer  as  you  wish.^* 

"  Dare  not !  *^  repeated  Mrs.  Hamilton,  more  and  more  bewil- 
dered; and  to  conceal  the  emotion  Ellen's  wild  words  and  ago- 
nized manner  had  produced,  adopting  a  greater  sternness, 

^^You  dare  commit  a  sin,  from  which  the  lowest  of  my  house- 
hold would  shrink  in  horror,  and  yet  tell  me  you  dare  not  make 
the  only  atonement,  give  me  the  only  proof  of  real  penitence  I 
demand.  This  is  a  weak  and  wicked  subterfuge,  Ellen,  and  will 
not  pass  with  me.  There  can  be  no  reason  for  this  fearful  obdu- 
racy, not  even  the  consciousness  of  greater  guilt,  for  I  promise 
forgiveness,  if  it  be  possible,  on  the  sole  condition  of  a  full  confess- 
ion. Once  more,  will  you  speak  ?  Your  hardihood  will  be  utterly 
useless,  for  you  cannot  hope  to  conquer  me;  and  if  you  permit 
me  to  leave  you  with  your  conduct  still  clothed  in  this  impene- 
trable mystery,  you  will  compel  me  to  adopt  measures  to  subdue 
that  defying  spirit,  which  will  expose  you  and  myself  to  intense 
suffering,  but  which  must  force  submission  at  last.  ^* 

^*You  cannot  inflict  more  than  I  have  endured  the  last  seven 
weeks,  *  murmured  Ellen,  almost  inarticulately.  "  I  have  borne 
that;  I  can  bear  the  rest.* 


GRACE  AGUILAR 


235 


**  Then  you  will  not  answer  ?  You  are  resolved  not  to  tell  me 
the  day  on  which  you  found  that  money,  the  use  to  which  it  was 
applied,  the  reason  of  your  choosing  that  forbidden  path,  permit- 
ting- me  to  believe  you  guilty  of  heavier  sins  than  may  be  the 
case  in  reality.  Listen  to  me,  Ellen;  it  is  more  than  time  this 
interview  should  cease;  but  I  will  give  you  one  chance  more.  It 
is  now  half -past  seven,  ^^ — she  took  the  watch  from  her  neck,  and 
laid  it  on  the  table — "I  will  remain  here  one -half  hour  longer: 
by  that  time  this  sinful  temper  may  have  passed  away,  and  you 
will  consent  to  give  me  the  confession  I  demand.  I  cannot 
believe  you  so  altered  in  two  months  as  to  choose  obduracy  and 
misery,  when  pardon,  and  in  time  confidence  and  love,  are 
offered  in  their  stead.  Get  up  from  that  crouching  posture;  it 
can  be  but  mock  humility,  and  so  only  aggravates  your  sin.* 

Ellen  rose  slowly  and  painfully,  and  seating  herself  at  the 
table  some  distance  from  her  aunt,  leaned  her  arms  upon  it,  and 
buried  her  face  within  them.  Never  before  and  never  after  did 
half  an  hour  appear  so  interminable  to  either  Mrs.  Hamilton  or 
Ellen.  It  was  well  for  the  firmness  of  the  former,  perhaps,  that 
she  could  not  read  the  heart  of  that  young  girl,  even  if  the  cause 
of  its  anguish  had  been  still  concealed.  Again  and  again  did  the 
wild  longing,  turning  her  actually  faint  and  sick  with  its  agony, 
come  over  her  to  reveal  the  whole,  to  ask  but  rest  and  mercy 
for  herself,  pardon  and  security  for  Edward:  but  then,  clear  as  if 
held  before  her  in  letters  of  fire,  she  read  every  word  of  her 
brother's  desperate  letter,  particularly  "  Breathe  it  to  my  uncle  or 
aunt  —  for  if  she  knows  it  he  will  —  and  you  will  never  see  me 
more.®  Her  mother,  pallid  as  death,  seemed  to  stand  before 
her,  freezing  confession  on  her  heart  and  lips,  looking  at  her 
threateningly,  as  she  had  so  often  seen  her,  as  if  the  very 
thought  were  guilt.  The  rapidly  advancing  twilight,  the  large 
and  lonely  room,  all  added  to  that  fearful  illusion;  and  if  Ellen 
did  succeed  in  praying  it  was  with  desperate  fervor  for  strength 
not  to  betray  her  brother.  If  ever  there  were  a  martyr  spirit, 
it  was  enshrined  in  that  young,  frail  form.     .     .     . 

*Aunt  Emmeline,  Aunt  Emmeline,  speak  to  me  but  one 
word  —  only  one  word  of  kindness  before  you  go.  I  do  not 
ask  for  mercy — there  can  be  none  for  such  a  wretch  as  I  am; 
I  will  bear  without  one  complaint,  one  murmur,  all  you  may 
inflict — you  cannot  be  too  severe.  Nothing  can  be  such  agony  as 
the  utter  loss  of  your  affection;   I  thought,  the  last  two  months. 


236  GRACE  AGUILAR 

that  I  feared  you  so  much  that  it  was  all  fear,  no  love:  but  now, 
now  that  you  know  my  sin,  it  has  all,  all  come  back  to  make  me 
still  more  wretched.^'  And  before  Mrs.  Hamilton  could  prevent, 
or  was  in  the  least  aware  of  her  intention,  Ellen  had  obtained 
possession  of  one  of  her  hands,  and  was  covering  it  with  kisses, 
while  her  whole  frame  shook  with  those  convulsed,  but  completely 
tearless  sobs. 

*^Will  you  confess,  Ellen,  if  I  stay?  "Will  you  give  me  the 
proof  that  it  ts  such  agony  to  lose  my  affection,  that  you  do  love 
me  as  you  profess,  and  that  it  is  only  one  sin  which  has  so 
changed  you  ?  One  word,  and,  tardy  as  it  is,  I  will  listen,  and  if 
I  can,  forgive.  ^^ 

Ellen  made  no  answer,  and  Mrs.  Hamilton's  newly  raised  hopes 
vanished;  she  waited  full  two  or  three  minutes,  then  gently  dis- 
engaged her  hand  and  dress  «*from  Ellen's  still  convulsive  grasp; 
the  door  closed,  with  a  sullen,  seemingly  unwilling  sound,  and 
Ellen  was  alone.  She  remained  in  the  same  posture,  the  same 
spot,  till  a  vague,  cold  terror  so  took  possession  of  her,  that  the 
room  seemed  filled  with  ghostly  shapes,  and  all  the  articles  of  fur- 
niture suddenly  transformed  to  things  of  life;  and  springing  up, 
with  the  wild,  fleet  step  of  fear,  she  paused  not  till  she  found 
herself  in  her  own  room,  where,  flinging  herself  on  her  bed,  she 
buried  her  face  on  her  pillow,  to  shut  out  every  object — oh,  how 
she  longed  to  shut  out  thought! 


a37 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH 

(1805-1882) 

^N  THE  year  i88i,  at  a  commemorative  dinner  given  to  her 
native  novelist  by  the  city  of  Manchester,  it  was  announced 
that  the  public  library  contained  two  hundred  and  fifty 
volumes  of  his  works,  which  passed  through  seven  thousand  six 
hundred  and  sixty  hands  annually,  so  that  his  stories  were  read  at 
the  rate  of  twenty  volumes  a  day  throughout  the  year.  This  ex- 
ceptional prophet,  who  was  thus  not  without  honor  in  his  own  country, 
was  the  son  of  a  prosperous  attorney,  and  was  himself  destined  to 
the  bar.  But  he  detested  the  law  and  he 
loved  letters,  and  before  he  was  twenty 
he  had  helped  to  edit  a  paper,  had  written 
essays,  a  story,  and  a  play, — none  of  which, 
fortunately  for  him,  survive, —  and  had 
gone  to  London,  ostensibly  to  read  in  a 
lawyer's  office,  and  really  to  spin  his  web 
of  fiction  whenever  opportunity  offered. 
Chance  connected  the  fortunes  of  young 
Ainsworth  with  periodical  literature,  where 
most  of  his  early  work  appeared.  His  first 
important  tale  was  <Rookwood,>  published 
in  1834.  This  describes  the  fortunes  of  a 
family  of  Yorkshire  gentry  in  the  last  cen-  W,  Harrison  Ainsworth 
tury ;  but  its  real  interest  lies  in  an  episode 

which  includes  certain  experiences  of  the  notorious  highwayman,  Dick 
Turpin,  and  his  furious  ride  to  outrun  the  hue  and  cry.  Sporting 
England  was  enraptured  with  the  dash  and  breathlessness  of  this 
adventure,  and  the  novelist's  fame  was  established. 

His  second  romance,  ^Crichton,*  appeared  in  1836.  The  hero  of 
this  tale  is  the  brilliant  Scottish  gentleman  whose  handsome  person, 
extraordinary  scholarship,  great  accomplishments,  courage,  eloquence, 
subtlety,  and  achievement  gained  him  the  sobriquet  of  "The  Admira- 
ble.** The  chief  scenes  are  laid  in  Paris  at  the  time  of  Catherine  de' 
Medici's  rule  and  Henry  IIL's  reign,  when  the  air  was  full  of  intrigue 
and  conspiracy,  and  when  religious  quarrels  were  not  more  bitter  and 
dangerous  than  political  wrangles.  The  inscrutable  king,  the  devout 
Queen  Louise  of  Lorraine,  the  scheming  queen-mother,  and  Marguerite 
of  Valois,  half  saint,  half  profligate,  a  pearl  of  beauty  and  grace; 


238  '  WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINS WORTH 

Henry  of  Navarre,  ready  to  buy  his  Paris  with  sword  or  mass;  well- 
known  great  nobles,  priests,  astrologers,  learned  doctors,  foreign 
potentates,  ambassadors,  pilgrims,  and  poisoners, — pass  before  the 
reader's  eye.  The  pictures  of  student  life,  at  a  time  when  all  the 
world  swarmed  to  the  great  schools  of  Paris,  serve  to  explain  the 
hero  and  the  period. 

When,  in  1839,  Dickens  resigned  the  editorship  of  Bentley's  Mis- 
cellany, Ainsworth  succeeded  him.  "The  new  whip,"  wrote  the  old 
one  afterward,  "having  mounted  the  box,  drove  straight  to  Newgate. 
He  there  took  in  Jack  Sheppard,  and  Cruikshank  the  artist;  and 
aided  by  that  very  vulgar  but  very  wonderful  draughtsman,  he  made 
an  effective  story  of  the  burglar's  and  housebreaker's  life."  Every- 
body read  the  story,  and  most  persons  cried  out  against  so  ignoble  a 
hero,  so  mean  a  history,  and  so  misdirected  a  literary  energy.  The 
author  himself  seems  not  to  have  been  proud  of  the  success  which 
sold  thousands  of  copies  of  an  unworthy  book,  and  placed  a  dramatic 
version  of  its  vulgar  adventures  on  the  stage  of  eight  theatres  at 
once.  He  turned  his  back  on  this  profitable  field  to  produce,  in  rapid 
succession,  *Guy  Fawkes,*  a  tale  of  the  famous  Gunpowder  Plot; 
<The  Tower  of  London,'  a  story  of  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  the  reign 
of  Queen  Mary,  and  the  melancholy  episode  of  Lady  Jane  Grey's 
brief  glory;  <01d  Saint  Paul,*  a  story  of  the  time  of  Charles  IL, 
which  contains  the  history  of  the  Plague  and  of  the  Great  Fire; 
<The  Miser's  Daughter';  < Windsor  Castle,'  whose  chief  characters 
are  Katharine  of  Aragon,  Anne  Boleyn,  Cardinal  Wolsey,  and  Henry 
the  Eighth ;  *  St.  James, '  a  tale  of  the  court  of  Queen  Anne ;  <  The 
Lancashire  Witches';  <The  Star-Chamber,'  a  historical  story  of  the 
time  of  Charles  L  ;  <  The  Constable  of  the  Tower ' ;  *■  The  Lord  Mayor 
of  London ' ;  *  Cardinal  Pole, '  which  deals  with  the  court  and  times  of 
Philip  and  Mary;  <John  Law,'  a  story  of  the  great  Mississippi  Bub- 
ble; *  Tower  Hill,'  whose  heroine  is  the  luckless  Catharine  Howard; 
*The  Spanish  Match,'  a  story  of  the  romantic  pilgrimage  of  Prince 
Charles  and  "  Steenie "  Buckingham  to  Spain  for  the  fruitless  wooing 
of  the  Spanish  Princess;  and  at  least  ten  other  romances,  many  of 
them  in  three  volumes,  all  appearing  between  1840  and  1873.  Two 
of  these  were  published  simultaneously,  in  serial  form;  and  no  year 
passed  without  its  book,  to  the  end  of  the  novelist's  long  life. 

Whatever  the  twentieth  century  may  say  to  Ainsworth's  historic 
romances,  many  of  them  have  found  high  favor  in  the  past.  Con- 
cerning ^Crichton,'  so  good  a  critic  as  "Father  Prout"  wrote:  — 
"Indeed,  I  scarcely  know  any  of  the  so-called  historical  novels  of  this 
frivolous  generation  which  has  altogether  so  graphically  reproduced 
the  spirit  and  character  of  the  time  as  this  daring  and  dashing  por- 
traiture of  the  young  Scot  and  his  contemporaries."     The  author  of 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH  239 

*Waverley*  praised  more  than  one  of  the  romances,  saying  that  they 
were  written  in  his  own  vein.  Even  Maginn,  the  satirical,  thought 
that  the  novelist  was  doing  excellent  service  to  history  in  making 
Englishmen  understand  how  full  of  comedy  and  tragedy  were  the  old 
streets  and  the  old  buildings  of  London.  And  if  Ainsworth  the 
writer  received  some  buffetings,  Ainsworth  the  man  seems  to  have 
been  universally  loved  and  approved.  All  the  literary  men  of  his 
time  were  his  cordial  friends.  Scott  wrote  for  him  <The  Bonnets 
of  Bonnie  Dundee,*  and  objected  to  being  paid.  Dickens  was  eager 
to  serve  him.  Talfourd,  Barham,  Hood,  Howitt,  James,  Jerrold, 
delighted  in  his  society.  At  dinner-parties  and  in  country-houses  he 
was  a  favorite  guest.  Thus,  easy  in  circumstances,  surrounded  by 
affection,  happy  in  the  labor  of  his  choice,  passed  the  long  life  of 
the  upright  and  kindly  English  gentleman  who  spent  fifty  industrious 
years  in  recording  the  annals  of  tragedy,  wretchedness,  and  crime. 


THE  STUDENTS  OF   PARIS 
From  <Crichton> 

TOWARD  the  close  of  Wednesday,  the  4th  of  February,  1579,  a 
vast  assemblage  of  scholars  was  collected  before  the  Gothic 
gateway  of  the  ancient  College  of  Navarre.  So  numerous 
was  this  concourse,  that  it  not  merely  blocked  up  the  area  in 
front  of  the  renowned  seminary  in  question,  but  extended  far 
down  the  Rue  de  la  Montagne  Sainte-G^nevi^ve,  in  which  it  is 
situated.  Never  had  such  a  disorderly  rout  been  brought  together 
since  the  days  of  the  uproar  in  1557,  when  the  predecessors  of 
these  turbulent  students  took  up  arms,  marched  in  a  body  to  the 
Pre-aux-Clercs,  set  fire  to  three  houses  in  the  vicinity,  and  slew 
a  sergeant  of  the  guard,  who  vainly  endeavored  to  restrain  their 
fury.  Their  last  election  of  a  rector,  Messire  Adrien  d'Amboise, 
. — pater  eruditionum,  as  he  is  described  in  his  epitaph,  when  the 
same  body  congregated  within  the  cloisters  of  the  Mathurins,  and 
thence  proceeded,  in  tumultuous  array,  to  the  church  of  Saint 
Louis,  in  the  isle  of  the  same  name,  —  had  been  nothing  to  it. 
Every  scholastic  hive  sent  forth  its  drones.  Sorbonne,  and  Mon- 
taigu,  Cluny,  Harcourt,  the  Four  Nations,  and  a  host  of  minor 
establishments  —  in  all,  amounting  to  forty-two  —  each  added  its 
swarms;  and  a  pretty  buzzing  they  created!  The  fair  of  Saint- 
Germain  had   only  commenced    the    day  before;    but    though   its 


340 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH 


festivities  were  to  continue  until  Palm  Sunday,  and  though  it  was 
the  constant  resort  of  the  scholars,  who  committed,  during  their 
days  of  carnival,  ten  thousand  excesses,  it  was  now  absolutely 
deserted. 

The  Pomme-de-Pin,  the  Castel,  the  Mag-daleine,  and  the  Mule, 
those  *^  capital  caverns,  ^^  celebrated  in  Pantagruel's  conference  with 
the  Limosin  student,  which  has  conferred  upon  them  an  immor- 
tality like  that  of  our  own  hostel,  the  Mermaid,  were  wholly 
neglected;  the  dice-box  was  laid  aside  for  the  nonce;  and  the 
well-used  cards  were  thrust  into  the  doublets  of  these  thirsty 
tipplers  of  the  schools. 

But  not  alone  did  the  crowd  consist  of  the  brawler,  the 
gambler,  the  bully,  and  the  debauchee,  though  these,  it  must  be 
confessed,  predominated.  It  was  a  grand  medley  of  all  sects  and 
classes.  The  modest  demeanor  of  the  retiring,  pale-browed  stu- 
dent was  contrasted  with  the  ferocious  aspect  and  reckless  bearing 
of  his  immediate  neighbor,  whose  appearance  was  little  better 
than  that  of  a  bravo.  The  grave  theologian  and  embryo  ecclesi- 
astic were  placed  in  juxtaposition  with  the  scoffing  and  licentious 
acolyte;  while  the  lawyer  in  posse,  and  the  law-breaker  in  esse, 
were  numbered  among  a  group  whose  pursuits  were  those  of  vio- 
lence and  fraud. 

Various  as  were  the  characters  that  composed  it,  not  less 
diversified  were  the  costumes  of  this  heterogeneous  assemblage. 
Subject  to  no  particular  regulations  as  to  dress,  or  rather  openly 
infracting  them,  if  any  such  were  attempted  to  be  enforced  — 
each  scholar,  to  whatever  college  he  belonged,  attired  himself  in 
such  garments  as  best  suited  his  taste  or  his  finances.  Taking  it 
altogether,  the  mob  was  neither  remarkable  for  the  fashion,  nor 
the  cleanliness  of  the  apparel  of  its  members. 

From  Rabelais  we  learn  that  the  passion  of  play  was  so 
strongly  implanted  in  the  students  of  his  day,  that  they  would 
frequently  stake  the  points  of  their  doublets  at  tric-trac  or  tron- 
madame;  and  but  little  improvement  had  taken  place  in  their 
morals  or  manners  some  half-century  afterward.  The  buckle  at 
their  girdle  —  the  mantle  on  their  shoulders  —  the  shirt  to  their 
back  —  often  stood  the  hazard  of  the  die;  and  hence  it  not  unfre- 
quently  happened,  that  a  rusty  pourpoint  and  ragged  cJiaussis 
were  all  the  covering  which  the  luckless  dicers  could  enumerate, 
owing,  no  doubt,  "  to  the  extreme  rarity  and  penury  of  money  in 
their  pouches.* 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH  241 

Round  or  square  caps,  hoods  and  cloaks  of  black,  gray,  or 
other  sombre  hue,  were,  however,  the  prevalent  garb  of  the  mem- 
bers of  the  university;  but  here  and  there  might  be  seen  some 
gayer  specimen  of  the  tribe,  whose  broad-brimmed,  high-crowned 
felt  hat  and  flaunting  feather;  whose  puffed-out  sleeves  and  exag- 
gerated ruff  —  with  starched  plaits  of  such  amplitude  that  they 
had  been  not  inappropriately  named //«/^  de  Saint  jfean-Bapiiste, 
from  the  resemblance  which  the  wearer's  head  bore  to  that  of  the 
saint,  when  deposited  in  the  charger  of  the  daughter  of  Herodias 
—  were  intended  to  ape  the  leading  mode  of  the  elegant  court  of 
their  sovereign,  Henri  Trois. 

Notwithstanding  its  shabby  appearance  in  detail,  the  general 
effect  of  this  scholastic  rabble  was  striking  and  picturesque.  The 
thick  mustaches  and  pointed  beards  with  which  the  lips  and 
chins  of  most  of  them  were  decorated,  gave  to  their  physiogno- 
mies a  manly  and  determined  air,  fully  borne  out  by  their  unre- 
strained carriage  and  deportment.  To  a  man,  almost  all  were 
armed  with  a  tough  vine -wood  bludgeon,  called  in  their  language 
an  estoc  volant,  tipped  and  shod  with  steel  —  a  weapon  fully 
understood  by  them,  and  rendered,  by  their  dexterity  in  the  use 
of  it,  formidable  to  their  adversaries.  Not  a  few  carried  at 
their  girdles  the  short  rapier,  so  celebrated  in  their  duels  and 
brawls,  or  concealed  within  their  bosom  a  poniard  or  a  two- 
edged  knife. 

The  scholars  of  Paris  have  ever  been  a  turbulent  and  ungov. 
emable  race;  and  at  the  period  of  which  this  history  treats,  and 
indeed  long  before,  were  little  better  than  a  licensed  horde  of 
robbers,  consisting  of  a  pack  of  idle  and  wayward  youths  drafted 
from  all  parts  of  Europe,  as  well  as  from  the  remoter  provinces 
of  their  own  nation.  There  was  little  in  common  between  the 
mass  of  students  and  their  brethren,  excepting  the  fellowship 
resulting  from  the  universal  license  in  which  all  indulged.  Hence 
their  thousand  combats  among  themselves — combats  almost  inva- 
riably attended  with  fatal  consequences  —  and  which  the  heads  of 
the  university  found  it  impossible  to  check.  / 

Their  own  scanty  resources,  eked  out  by  what  little  they  could 
derive  from  beggary  or  robbery,  formed  their  chief  subsistence; 
for  many  of  them  were  positive  mendicants,  and  were  so  denom- 
inated: and  being  possessed  of  a  sanctuary  within  their  own 
quarters,  to  which  they  could  at  convenience  retire,  they  sub- 
mitted to  the  constraint  of  no  laws  except  those  enforced  within 
I— 16 


242  WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH 

the  jurisdiction  of  the  university,  and  hesitated  at  no  means  of 
enriching  themselves  at  the  expense  of  their  neighbors.  Hence 
the  frequent  warfare  waged  between  them  and  the  brethren  of 
Saint-Germain  des  Pr^s,  whose  monastic  domains  adjoined  their 
territories,  and  whose  meadows  were  the  constant  battleground  of 
their  skirmishes;  according  to  Dulaure  —  ^^ presque  toujour s  un 
th^dtre  de  tumulte,  de  galanterie,  de  combats^  de  duels,  de  debauches 
et  de  s^ditio?t.^'*  Hence  their  sanguinary  conflicts  with  the  good 
citizens  of  Paris,  to  whom  they  were  wholly  obnoxious,  and  who 
occasionally  repaid  their  aggressions  with  interest.  In  1407  two 
of  their  number,  convicted  of  assassination  and  robbery,  were  con- 
demned to  the  gibbet,  and  the  sentence  was  carried  into  execution ; 
but  so  great  was  the  uproar  occasioned  in  the  university  by  this 
violation  of  its  immunities  that  the  Provost  of  Paris,  Guillaume  de 
Tignonville,  was  compelled  to  take  down  their  bodies  from  Mont- 
faucon  and  see  them  honorably  and  ceremoniously  interred.  This 
recognition  of  their  rights  only  served  to  make  matters  worse,  and 
for  a  series  of  years  the  nuisance  continued  unabated. 

It  is  not  our  purpose  to  record  all  the  excesses  of  the  uni- 
versity, nor  the  means  taken  for  their  suppression.  Vainly  were 
the  civil  authorities  arrayed  'against  them.  Vainly  were  bulls 
thundered  from  the  Vatican.  No  amendment  was  effected.  The 
weed  might  be  cut  down,  but  was  never  entirely  extirpated. 
Their  feuds  were  transmitted  from  generation  to  generation,  and 
their  old  bone  of  contention  with  the  abbot  of  Saint-Germain  (the 
Pr^-aux-Clercs)  was,  after  an  uninterrupted  strife  for  thirty  years, 
submitted  to  the  arbitration  of  the  Pope,  who  very  equitably 
refused  to  pronounce  judgment  in  favor  of  either  party. 

Such  were  the  scholars  of  Paris  in  the  sixteenth  century  — 
such  the  character  of  the  clamorous  crew  who  besieged  the  por- 
tals of  the  College  of  Navarre. 

The  object  that  summoned  together  this  unruly  multitude 
was,  it  appears,  a  desire  on  the  part  of  the  scholars  to  be  pres- 
ent at  a  public  controversy  or  learned  disputation,  then  occur- 
ring within  the  great  hall  of  the  college  before  which  they  were 
congregated;  and  the  disappointment  caused  by  their  finding  the 
gates  closed,  and  all  entrance  denied  to  them,  occasioned  their 
present  disposition  to  riot. 

It  was  in  vain  they  were  assured  by  the  halberdiers  stationed 
at  the  gates,  and  who,  with  crossed  pikes,  strove  to  resist  the 
onward  pressure  of  the  mob,  that  the  hall  and  court  were  alread,v 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH 


243 


crammed  to  overflowing,  that  there  was  not  room  even  for  the 
sole  of  a  foot  of  a  doctor  of  the  faculties,  and  that  their  orders 
were  positive  and  imperative  that  none  beneath  the  degree  of  a 
bachelor  or  licentiate  should  be  admitted,  and  that  a  troop  of  mar- 
tinets and  new-comers  could  have  no  possible  claim  to  admission. 

In  vain  they  were  told  this  was  no  ordinary  disputation,  no 
common  controversy,  where  all  were  alike  entitled  to  license  of 
ingress;  that  the  disputant  was  no  undistinguished  scholar,  whose 
renown  did  not  extend  beyond  his  own  trifling  sphere,  and 
whose  opinions,  therefore,  few  would  care  to  hear  and  still 
fewer  to  oppugn,  but  a  foreigner  of  high  rank,  in  high  favor  and 
fashion,  and  not  more  remarkable  for  his  extraordinary  intel- 
lectual endowments  than  for  his  brilliant  personal  accompHsh- 
ments. 

In  vain  the  trembling  officials  sought  to  clinch  their  arguments 
by  stating,  that  not  alone  did  the  conclave  consist  of  the  chief 
members  of  the  university,  the  senior  doctors  of  theology,  med- 
icine, and  law,  the  professors  of  the  humanities,  rhetoric,  and  phi- 
losophy, and  all  the  various  other  dignitaries;  but  that  the  debate 
was  honored  by  the  presence  of  Monsieur  Christophe  de  Thou, 
first  president  of  Parliament;  by  that  of  the  learned  Jacques 
Augustin,  of  the  same  name;  by  one  of  the  secretaries  of  state 
and  Governor  of  Paris,  M.  Ren^  de  Villequier;  by  the  ambassa- 
dors of  Elizabeth,  Queen  of  England,  and  of  Philip  the  Second, 
King  of  Spain,  and  several  of  their  suite;  by  Abbe  de  Brantome; 
by  M.  Miron,  the  court  physician;  by  Cosmo  Ruggieri,  the 
Queen  Mother's  astrologer ;  by  the  renowned  poets  and  masque 
writers,  Maitres  Ronsard,  Baif,  and  Philippe  Desportes;  by  the 
well-known  advocate  of  Parliament,  Messire  Etienne  Pasquier: 
but  also  (and  here  came  the  gravamen  of  the  objection  to  their 
admission)  by  the  two  especial  favorites  of  his  Majesty  and  lead- 
ers of  affairs,  the  seigneurs  of  Joyeuse  and  D'Epemon. 

It  was  in  vain  the  students  were  informed  that  for  the  pres- 
ervation of  strict  decorum,  they  had  been  commanded  by  the  rector 
to  make  fast  the  gates.  No  excuses  would  avail  them.  The 
scholars  were  cogent  reasoners,  and  a  show  of  staves  soon 
brought  their  opponents  to  a  nonplus.  In  this  line  of  argument 
they  were  perfectly  aware  of  their  ability  to  prove  a  major. 

*  To  the  wall  with  them  —  to  the  wall ! "  cried  a  hundred  infu- 
riated voices.  "  Down  with  the  halberdiers  —  down  with  the  gates 
—  down  with  the  disputants — down   with  the  rector  himself!  — 


244 


WILLIAM   HARRISON  AINSWORTH 


Deny  our  privileges!  To  the  wall  with  old  Adrien  d'Amboise  — 
exclude  the  disciples  of  the  university  from  their  own  halls!  — 
curry  favor  with  the  court  minions!  —  hold  a  public  controversy 
in  private!  —  down  with  him!  We  will  issue  a  mandamus  for  a 
new  election  on  the  spot !  ^^ 

Whereupon  a  deep  groan  resounded  throughout  the  crowd. 
It  was  succeeded  by  a  volley  of  fresh  execrations  against  the 
rector,  and  an  angry  demonstration  of  bludgeons,  accompanied  by 
a  brisk  shower  of  peas  from  the  sarbacanes. 

The  officials  turned  pale,  and  calculated  the  chance  of  a  broken 
neck  in  reversion,  with  that  of  a  broken  crown  in  immediate 
possession.  The  former  being  at  least  contingent,  appeared  the 
milder  alternative,  and  they  might  have  been  inclined  to  adopt 
it  had  not  a  further  obstacle  stood  in  their  way.  The  gate  was 
barred  withinside,  and  the  vergers  and  bedels  who  had  the  cus- 
tody of  the  door,  though  alarmed  at  the  tumult  without,  positively 
refused  to  unfasten  it. 

Again  the  threats  of  the  scholars  were  renewed,  and  further 
intimations  of  violence  were  exhibited.  Again  the  peas  rattled 
upon  the  hands  and  faces  of  the  halberdiers,  till  their  ears  tingled 
with  pain.  "Prate  to  us  of  the  king's  favorites,**  cried  one  of  the 
foremost  of  the  scholars,  a  youth  decorated  with  a  paper  collar: 
"they  may  rule  within  the  precincts  of  the  Louvre,  but  not 
within  the  walls  of  the  tmiversity.  Maugre-bleu!  We  hold  them 
cheap  enough.  We  heed  not  the  idle  bark  of  these  full-fed  court 
lapdogs.  What  to  us  is  the  bearer  of  a  cup  and  ball  ?  By  the 
four  Evangelists,  we  will  have  none  of  them  here!  Let  the  Gas- 
con cadet,  D'Epemon,  reflect  on  the  fate  of  Qu^lus  and  Maugiron, 
and  let  our  gay  Joyeuse  beware  of  the  dog's  death  of  Saint- 
M^grin.  Place  for  better  men  —  place  for  the  schools  —  away  with 
frills  and  sarbacanes?^ 

"  What  to  us  is  a  president  of  Parliament,  or  a  governor  of  the 
city  ?  **  shouted  another  of  the  same  gentry.  "  We  care  nothing 
for  their  ministration.  We  recognize  them  not,  save  in  their  own 
courts.  All  their  authority  fell  to  the  ground  at  the  gate  of  the 
Rue  Saint  Jacques,  when  they  entered  our  dominions.  We  care 
for  no  parties.  We  are  trimmers,  and  steer  a  middle  course.  We 
hold  the  Guisards  as  cheap  as  the  Huguenots,  and  the  brethren 
of  the  League  weigh  as  little  with  us  as  the  followers  of  Calvin. 
Our  only  sovereign  is  Gregory  the  Thirteenth,  Pontiff  of  Rome. 
Away  with  the  Guise  and  the  Bearnaise !  ** 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH  245 

*Away  with  Henri  of  Navarre,  if  you  please,*^  cried  a  scholar 
of  Harcourt;  "or  Henri  of  Valois,  if  you  Hst:  but  by  all  the 
saints,  not  with  Henri  of  Lorraine;  he  is  the  fast  friend  of  the 
true   faith.     No!  —  No!  —  live   the  Guise  —  live   the  Holy  Union!** 

*^Away  with  Elizabeth  of  England,**  cried  a  scholar  of  Cluny: 
*  what  doth  her  representative  here  ?  Seeks  he  a  spouse  for  her 
among  our  schools?  She  will  have  no  great  bargain,  I  own,  if 
she  bestows  her  royal  hand  upon  our  Due  d'Anjou.** 

"  If  you  value  your  buff  jerkin,  I  counsel  you  to  say  nothing 
slighting  of  the  Queen  of  England  in  my  hearing,**  returned  a 
bluff,  broad-shouldered  fellow,  raising  his  bludgeon  after  a  men- 
acing fashion.  He  was  an  Englishman  belonging  to  the  Four 
Nations,  and  had  a  huge  bull-dog  at  his  heels. 

"  Away  with  Philip  of  Spain  and  his  ambassador,  **  cried  a 
Bemardin. 

"  By  the  eyes  of  my  mistress !  **  cried  a  Spaniard  belonging  to 
the  College  of  Narbonne,  with  huge  mustaches  curled  half-way 
up  his  bronzed  and  insolent  visage,  and  a  slouched  hat  pulled 
over  his  brow.  "This  may  not  pass  muster.  The  representative 
of  the  King  of  Spain  must  be  respected  even  by  the  Academics 
of  Lutetia.     Which  of  you  shall  gainsay  me?  —  ha!** 

"What  business  has  he  here  with  his  suite,  on  occasions  like 
to  the  present  ?  **  returned  the  Bemardin.  "  Tete-Dieu!  this  dispu- 
tation is  one  that  little  concerns  the  interest  of  your  politic  king; 
and  methinks  Don  Philip,  or  his  representative,  has  regard  for 
little  else  than  whatsoever  advances  his  own  interest.  Your 
ambassador  hath,  I  doubt  not,  some  latent  motive  for  his  present 
attendance  in  our  schools.** 

"Perchance,**  returned  the  Spaniard.  "We  will  discuss  that 
point  anon.** 

"And  what  doth  the  pander  of  the  Sybarite  within  the  dusty 
halls  of  learning  ?  **  ejaculated  a  scholar  of  Lemoine.  "  What 
doth  the  jealous-pated  slayer  of  his  wife  and  unborn  child  within 
the  reach  of  free-spoken  voices,  and  mayhap  of  well-directed 
blades  ?  Methinks  it  were  more  prudent  to  tarry  within  the 
bowers  of  his  harem,  than  to  hazard  his  perfumed  person  among 
us.** 

"  Well  said,  **  rejoined  the  scholar  of  Cluny  — "  down  with 
Rene  de  Villequier,  though  he  be  Governor  of  Paris.** 

"What  title  hath  the  Abb^  de  Brantome  to  a  seat  among 
us  ?  **  said  the  scion  of  Harcourt :  "  faith,  he  hath  a  reputation  for 


246 


WILLIAM  HARRISON   AINSWORTH 


wit,  and  scholarship,  and  gallantry.  But  what  is  that  to  us? 
His  place  might  now  be  filled  by  worthier  men.** 

**And  what,  in  the  devil's  name,  brings  Cosmo  Ruggieri 
hither  ? "  asked  the  Bernardin.  "  What  doth  the  wrinkled  old 
dealer  in  the  black  art  hope  to  learn  from  us  ?  We  are  not 
given  to  alchemy,  and  the  occult  sciences;  we  practice  no  hidden 
mysteries;  we  brew  no  philtres;  we  compound  no  slow  poisons; 
we  vend  no  waxen  images.  What  doth  he  here,  I  say!  'Tis  a 
scandal  in  the  rector  to  permit  his  presence.  And  what  if  he 
came  under  the  safeguard,  and  by  the  authority  of  his  mistress, 
Catherine  de'  Medicis !  Shall  we  regard  her  passport  ?  Down 
with  the  heathen  abb^,  his  abominations  have  been  endured  too 
long;  they  smell  rank  in  our  nostrils.  Think  how  he  ensnared 
La  Mole — think  on  his  numberless  victims.  Who  mixed  the 
infernal  potion  of  Charles  the  Ninth  ?  Let  him  answer  that. 
Down  with  the  infidel  —  the  Jew — the  sorcerer!  The  stake  were 
too  good  for  him.     Down  with  Ruggieri,  I  say.** 

"Aye,  down  with  the  accursed  astrologer,**  echoed  the  whole 
crew.  "  He  has  done  abundant  mischief  in  his  time.  A  day  of 
reckoning  has  arrived.  Hath  he  cast  his  own  horoscope  ?  Did 
he  foresee  his  own  fate  ?     Ha !  ha !  ** 

"And  then  the  poets,**  cried  another  member  of  the  Four 
Nations — "a  plague  on  all  three.  Would  they  were  elsewhere. 
In  what  does  this  disputation  concern  them  ?  Pierre  Ronsard, 
being  an  offshoot  of  this  same  College  of  Navarre,  hath  indubi- 
tably a  claim  upon  our  consideration.  But  he  is  old,  and  I 
marvel  that  his  gout  permitted  him  to  hobble  so  far.  Oh,  the 
mercenary  old  scribbler!  His  late  verses  halt  like  himself,  yet 
he  lowereth  not  the  price  of  his  masques.  Besides  which,  he  is 
grown  moral,  and  unsays  all  his  former  good  things.  Mort 
Dieu !  your  superannuated  bards  ever  recant  the  indiscretions 
of  their  nonage.  Clement  Marot  took  to  psalm-writing  in  his 
old  age.  As  to  Bai'f,  his  name  will  scarce  outlast  the  scenery 
of  his  ballets,  his  plays  are  out  of  fashion  since  the  Gelosi 
arrived.  He  deserves  no  place  among  us.  And  Philip  Desportes 
owes  all  his  present  preferment  to  the  Vicomte  de  Joyeuse. 
However,  he  is  not  altogether  devoid  of  merit — let  him  wear 
his  bays,  so  he  trouble  us  not  with  his  company.  Room  for  the 
sophisters  of  Narbonne,  I  say.     To  the  dogs  with  poetry !  ** 

'•''Morbleu !  **  exclaimed  another.  "  What  are  the  sophisters 
of  Narbonne  to  the  decretists  of  the  Sorbonne,  who  will  discuss 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH  247 

yoti  a  position  of  Cornelius  a  Lapide,  or  a  sentence  of  Peter 
Lombard,  as  readily  as  you  would  a  flask  of  hippocras,  or  a  slice 
of  botargo.  Aye,  and  cry  transeat  to  a  thesis  of  Aristotle, 
though  it  be  against  rule.  What  sayst  thou,  Capete  ?  *  continued 
he,  addressing  his  neighbor,  a  scholar  of  Montaigu,  whose 
modest  gray  capuchin  procured  him  this  appellation:  ^<are  we  the 
men  to  be  thus  scurvily  entreated  ?  * 

*  I  see  not  that  your  merits  are  greater  than  ours,  ^*  returned 
he  of  the  capuch,  "though  our  boasting  be  less.  The  followers 
of  the  lowly  John  Standoncht  are  as  well  able  to  maintain  their 
tenets  in  controversy  as  those  of  Robert  of  Sorbon;  and  I  see  no 
reason  why  entrance  should  be  denied  us.  The  honor  of  the 
university  is  at  stake,  and  all  its  strength  should  be  mustered  to 
assert  it.* 

*  Rightly  spoken,*  returned  the  Bemardin;  *and  it  were  a 
lasting  disgrace  to  our  schools  were  this  arrogant  Scot  to  carry 
off  their  laurels  when  so  many  who  might  have  been  found 
to  lower  his  crest  are  allowed  no  share  in  their  defense.  The 
contest  is  one  that  concerns  us  all  alike.  We  at  least  can  arbi- 
trate in  case  of  need.* 

*  I  care  not  for  the  honors  of  the  university,  *  rejoined  one 
of  the  Ecossais,  or  Scotch  College,  then  existing  in  the  Rue  des 
Amandiers,  "but  I  care  much  for  the  glory  of  my  countryman, 
and  I  would  gladly  have  witnessed  the  triumph  of  the  disciples  of 
Rutherford  and  of  the  classic  Buchanan.  But  if  the  arbitrament 
to  which  you  would  resort  is  to  be  that  of  voices  merely,  I  am 
glad  the  rector  in  his  wisdom  has  thought  fit  to  keep  you  with- 
out, even  though  I  myself  be  personally  inconvenienced  by  it.* 

"  Name  o'  God !  what  fine  talking  is  this  ?  *  retorted  the  Span- 
iard. "There  is  little  chance  of  the  triumph  you  predicate  for 
your  countryman.  Trust  me,  we  shall  have  to  greet  his  departure 
from  the  debate  with  many  hisses  and  few  cheers;  and  if  we 
could  penetrate  through  the  plates  of  yon  iron  door,  and  gaze 
into  the  court  it  conceals  from  our  view,  we  should  find  that  the 
loftiness  of  his  pretensions  has  been  already  humbled,  and  his 
arguments  graveled.  Por  la  Litania  de  los  Santos!  to  think  of 
comparing  an  obscure  student  of  the  pitiful  College  of  Saint 
Andrew  with  the  erudite  doctors  of  the  most  erudite  university 
in  the  world,  always  excepting  those  of  Valencia  and  Salamanca. 
A  needs  all  thy  country's  assurance  to  keep  the  blush  of  shame 
from  mantling  in  thy  cheeks.* 


248  WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH 

"The  seminary  you  revile, ^^  replied  the  Scot,  haughtily,  "has 
been  the  nursery  of  our  Scottish  kings.  Nay,  the  youthful  James 
Stuart  pursued  his  studies  under  the  same  roof,  beneath  the  same 
wise  instruction,  and  at  the  self-same  time  as  our  noble  and  gifted 
James  Crichton,  whom  you  have  falsely  denominated  an  advent- 
urer, but  whose  lineage  is  not  less  distinguished  than  his  learn- 
ing. His  renown  has  preceded  him  hither,  and  he  was  not 
unknown  to  your  doctors  when  he  affixed  his  programme  to  these 
college  walls.  Hark !  '^  continued  the  speaker,  exultingly,  "  and 
listen  to  yon  evidence  of  his  triumph.^* 

And  as  he  spoke,  a  loud  and  continued  clapping  of  hands  pro- 
ceeding from  within  was  distinctly  heard  above  the  roar  of  the 
students. 

"That  may  be  at  his  defeat,*^  muttered  the  Spaniard,  between 
his  teeth. 

"  No  such  thing,  *  replied  the  Scot.  "  I  heard  the  name  of 
Crichton  mingled  with  the  plaudits.'* 

"And  who  may  be  this  Phoenix  —  this  Gargantua  of  intel- 
lect—  who  is  to  vanquish  us  all,  as  Panurge  did  Thaumast,  the 
Englishman  ?  *'  asked  the  Sorbonist  of  the  Scot.  "  Who  is  he  that 
is  more  philosophic  than  Pythagoras?  —  ha!* 

"  Who  is  more  studious  than  Carneades !  '*  said  the  Bemardin. 

"  More  versatile  than  Alcibiades !  *  said  Montaigu. 

"  More  subtle  than  Averroes !  '*  cried  Harcourt. 

"  More  mystical  than  Plotinus !  **  said  one  of  the  Four  Nations. 

"  More  visionary  than  Artemidorus !  '*  said  Cluny. 

"  More  infallible  than  the  Pope !  '*  added  Lemoine. 

"And  who  pretends  to  dispute  de  omni  scibili,^'*  shouted  the 
Spaniard. 

"  Et  quolibet  ente !  "  added  the  Sorbonist. 

"  Mine  ears  are  stunned  with  your  vociferations,  **  replied  the 
Scot.  "You  ask  me  who  James  Crichton  is,  and  yourselves  give 
the  response.  You  have  mockingly  said  he  is  a  rara  avis;  a 
prodigy  of  wit  and  learning:  and  you  have  unintentionally  spoken 
the  truth.  He  is  so.  But  I  will  tell  you  that  of  him  of  which 
you  are  wholly  ignorant,  or  which  you  have  designedly  over- 
looked. His  condition  is  that  of  a  Scottish  gentleman  of  high 
rank.  Like  your  Spanish  grandee,  he  need  not  doif  his  cap  to 
kmgs.  On  either  side  hath  he  the  best  of  blood  in  his  veins. 
His  mother  was  a  Stuart  directly  descended  from  that  regal  line. 
His  father,  who   owneth   the  fair  domains  of   Eliock  and   Cluny, 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH 


249 


was  Lord  Advocate  to  our  bonny  and  luckless  Mary  (whom 
Heaven  assoilzie!)  and  still  holds  his  high  office.  Methinks  the 
Lairds  of  Crichton  might  have  been  heard  of  here.  How- 
beit,  they  are  well  known  to  me,  who  being  an  Ogilvy  of 
Balfour,  have  often  heard  tell  of  a  certain  contract  or  obliga- 
tion, whereby — ^* 

*^  Basta ! "  interrupted  the  Spaniard,  ^*  heed  not  thine  own 
affairs,  worthy  Scot.     Tell  us  of  this  Crichton  —  ha!^* 

*  I  have  told  you  already  more  than  I  ought  to  have  told,  '* 
replied  Ogilvy,  sullenly.  ^^And  if  you  lack  further  information 
respecting  James  Crichton's  favor  at  the  Louvre,  his  feats  of 
arms,  and  the  esteem  in  which  he  is  held  by  all  the  dames  of 
honor  in  attendance  upon  your  Queen  Mother,  Catherine  de* 
Medicis  —  and  moreover,  ^^  he  added,  with  somewhat  of  sarcasm, 
*with  her  fair  daughter.  Marguerite  de  Valois  —  you  will  do  well 
to  address  yourself  to  the  king's  buffoon,  Maitre  Chicot,  whom  I 
see  not  far  off.  Few  there  are,  methinks,  who  could  in  such 
short  space  have  won  so  much  favor,  or  acquired  such  bright 
renown.  '* 

"  Humph !  ^^  muttered  the  Englishman,  *  your  Scotsmen  stick 
by  each  other  all  the  world  over.  This  James  Crichton  may  or 
may  not  be  the  hero  he  is  vaunted,  but  I  shall  mistrust  his 
praises  from  that  quarter,  till  I  find  their  truth  confirmed.*^ 

*  He  has,  to  be  sure',  acquired  the  character  of  a  stout  swords- 
man,*^ said  the  Bemardin,  *^to  give  the  poor  devil  his  due.** 

^^He  has  not  met  with  his  match  at  the  salle-d'armes,  though 
he  has  crossed  blades  with  the  first  in  France,**  replied  Ogilvy. 

**  I  have  seen  him  at  the  Manege,**  said  the  Sorbonist,  ^^go 
through  his  course  of  equitation,  and  being  a  not  altogether 
unskillful  horseman  myself,  I  can  report  favorably  of  his  per- 
formance. ** 

"There  is  none  among  your  youth  can  sit  a  steed  like  him,** 
returned  Ogilvy,  <^nor  can  any  of  the  jousters  carry  off  the  ring 
with  more  certainty  at  the  lists.  I  would  fain  hold  my  tongue, 
but  you  enforce  me  to  speak  in  his  praise.** 

*  Body  of  Bacchus !  **  exclaimed  the  Spaniard,  half  unsheathing 
the  lengthy  weapon  that  hung  by  his  side.  "I  will  hold  you  a 
wager  of  ten  rose-nobles  to  as  many  silver  reals  of  Spain,  that 
with  this  stanch  Toledo  I  will  overcome  your  vaunted  Crichton 
in  close  fight  in  any  manner  or  practice  of  fence  or  digladiation 
which    he    may    appoint  —  sword    and    dagger,    or    sword    only  — 


250 


WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH 


Stripped  to  the  girdle  or  armed  to  the  teeth.  By  our  Saint 
Trinidad!  I  will  have  satisfaction  for  the  contumelious  affront 
he  hath  put  upon  the  very  learned  gymnasium  to  which  I 
belong;  and  it  would  gladden  me  to  clip  the  wings  of  this  loud- 
crowing  cock,  or  any  of  his  dunghill  crew,^*  added  he,  with  a 
scornful  gesture  at  the  Scotsman. 

*If  that  be  all  you  seek,  you  shall  not  need  to  go  far  in  your 
quest,  *  returned  Ogilvy.  "  Tarry  till  this  controversy  be  ended, 
and  if  I  match  not  your  Spanish  blade  with  a  Scottish  broad- 
sword, and  approve  you  as  recreant  at  heart  as  you  are  boastful 
and  injurious  of  speech,  may  Saint  Andrew  forever  after  with- 
hold from  me  his  protection.* 

"  The  Devil !  *  exclaimed  the  Spaniard.  "  Thy  Scottish  saint 
will  little  avail  thee,  since  thou  hast  incurred  my  indignation. 
Betake  thee,  therefore,  to  thy  paternosters,  if  thou  has  grace 
withal  to  mutter  them;  for  within  the  hour  thou  art  assuredly 
food  for  the  kites  of  the  Pr6-aux-Clercs — sa-ha!* 

**Look  to  thyself,  vile  braggart!*  rejoined  Ogilvy,  scornfully; 
**  I  promise  thee  thou  shalt  need  other  intercession  than  thine 
own  to  purchase  safety  at  my  hands." 

"Courage,  Master  Ogilvy,*  said  the  Englishman,  "thou  wilt 
do  well  to  slit  the  ears  of  this  Spanish  swashbuckler.  I  war- 
rant me  he  hides  a  craven  spirit  beneath  that  slashed  pourpoint. 
Thou  art  in  the  right,  man,  to  make  him  eat  his  words.  Be 
this  Crichton  what  he  may,  he  is  at  least  thy  countryman,  and 
in  part  mine  own.* 

"And  as  such  I  will  uphold  him,*  said  Ogilvy,  "against  any 
odds.* 

"Bravo!  my  valorous  Don  Diego  Caravaja,*  said  the  Sorbon- 
ist,  slapping  the  Spaniard  on  the  shoulder,  and  speaking  in  his 
ear.  "Shall  these  scurvy  Scots  carry  all  before  them?  —  I  war- 
rant me,  no.  We  will  make  common  cause  against  the  whole 
beggarly  nation;  and  in  the  meanwhile  we  intrust  thee  with  this 
particular  quarrel.  See  thou  acquit  thyself  in  it  as  beseemeth  a 
descendant  of  the  Cid.* 

"Account  him  already  abased,*  returned  Caravaja.  "By  Pe- 
layo,  I  would  the  other  were  at  his  back,  that  both  might  be 
transfixed  at  a  blow — ha!* 

"To  return  to  the  subject  of  difference,*  said  the  Sorbonist, 
who  was  too  much  delighted  with  the  prospect  of  a  duel  to  allow 
the  quarrel  a  chance  of   subsiding,  while  it  was  in  his  power  to 


WILLIAM   HARRISON  AINSWORTH 

/an  the  flame;  "to  return  to  the  difference,**  said  he,  aloud, 
glancing  at  Ogilvy:  "it  must  be  conceded  that  as  a  wassailer  this 
Crichton  is  without  a  peer.  None  of  us  may  presume  to  cope 
with  him  in  the  matter  of  the  flask  and  the  flagon,  though  we 
number  among  us  some  jolly  topers.  Friar  John,  with  the 
Priestess  of  Bacbuc,  was  a  washy  bibber  compared  with  him,** 

"  He  worships  at  the  shrines  of  other  priestesses  besides  hers 
of  Bacbuc,  if  I  be  not  wrongly  informed,**  added  Montaigu,  who 
understood  the  drift  of  his  companion. 

"  Else,  wherefore  our  rejoinder  to  his  cartels  ?  **  returned  the 
Sorbonist.  "  Do  you  not  call  to  mind  that  beneath  his  arrogant 
defiance  of  our  learned  body,  affixed  to  the  walls  of  the  Sor- 
bonne,  it  was  written,  *That  he  who  would  behold  this  miracle 
of  learning  must  hie  to  the  tavern  or  bordel  ?  *  Was  it  not  so, 
my  hidalgo  ?  ** 

"  I  have  myself  seen  him  at  the  temulentive  tavern  of  the 
Falcon,**  returned  Caravaja,  "and  at  the  lupanarian  haunts  in  the 
Champ  Gaillard  and  the  Val-d 'Amour,    You  understand  me  —  ha!** 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!**  chorused  the  scholars,  "James  Crichton  is 
no  stoic.  He  is  a  disciple  of  Epicurus.  Vel  in  puellam  impingit^ 
vel  in  poculmn — ha!  ha!** 

"  'Tis  said  that  he  hath  dealings  with  the  Evil  One,  **  observed 
the  man  of  Harcourt,  with  a  mysterious  air;  "and  that,  like 
Jeanne  d'Arc,  he  hath  surrendered  his  soul  for  his  temporal  wel- 
fare. Hence  his  wondrous  lore;  hence  his  supernatural  beauty 
and  accomplishments;  hence  his  power  of  fascinating  the  fair  sex; 
hence  his  constant  run  of  luck  with  the  dice;  hence,  also,  his 
invulnerableness  to  the  sword.** 

"  'Tis  said,  also,  that  he  has  a  familiar  spirit,  who  attends  him 
in  the  semblance  of  a  black  dog,**  said  Montaigu. 

"Or  in  that  of  a  dwarf,  like  the  sooty  imp  of  Cosmo  Rug- 
gieri,**  said  Harcourt,  "Is  it  not  so?**  he  asked,  turning  to  the 
Scot, 

"  He  lies  in  his  throat  who  says  so,  **  cried  Ogilvy,  losing  all 
patience,  "  To  one  and  all  of  you  I  breathe  defiance ;  and  there 
is  not  a  brother  in  the  college  to  which  I  belong  who  will  not 
maintain  my  quarrel.** 

A  loud  laugh  of  derision  followed  this  sally;  and,  ashamed  of 
having  justly  exposed  himself  to  ridicule  by  his  idle  and  unworthy 
display  of  passion,  the  Scotsman  held  his  peace  and  endeavored 
to  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  their  taunts. 


2C2  '  WILLIAM  HARRISON  AINSWORTH 

The  gates  of  the  College  of  Navarre  were  suddenly  thrown 
open,  and  a  long-continued  thunder  of  applause  bursting  from 
within,  announced  the  conclusion  of  the  debate.  That  it  had 
terminated  in  favor  of  Crichton  could  no  longer  be  doubted,  as 
his  name  formed  the  burden  of  all  the  plaudits  with  which  the 
courts  were  ringing.  All  was  excitement:  there  was  a  general 
movement.  Ogilvy  could  no  longer  restrain  himself.  Pushing 
forward  by  prodigious  efforts,  he  secured  himself  a  position  at 
the  portal. 

The  first  person  who  presented  himself  to  his  inquiring  eyes 
was  a  gallant  figure  in  a  glittering  steel  corselet  crossed  by  a 
silken  sash,  who  bore  at  his  side  a  long  sword  with  a  magnificent 
handle,  and  upon  his  shoulder  a  lance  of  some  six  feet  in  length, 
headed  with  a  long  scarlet  tassel,  and  brass  half-moon  pendant. 
*Is  not  Crichton  victorious?**  asked  Ogilvy  of  Captain  Larchant, 
for  he  it  was, 

*  He  hath  acquitted  himself  to  admiration,  **  replied  the  guards- 
man, who,  contrary  to  the  custom  of  such  gentry  (for  captains  of 
the  g^ard  have  been  fine  gentlemen  in  all  ages),  did  not  appear 
to  be  displeased  at  this  appeal  to  his  courtesy,  <*and  the  rector 
hath  adjudged  him  all  the  honors  that  can  be  bestowed  by  the 
university.  ** 

"Hurrah  for  old  Scotland,*  shouted  Ogilvy,  throwing  his 
bonnet  in  the  air ;  *  I  was  sure  it  would  be  so ;  this  is  a  day 
worth  living  for.     Hcbc  olim  meminisse  juvabit.  * 

"Thou  at  least  shalt  have  reason  to  remember  it,*  muttered 
Caravaja,  who,  being  opposite  to  him,  heard  the  exclamation  — 
"and  he  too,  perchance,*  he  added,  frowning  gloomily,  and  draw- 
ing his  cloak  over  his  shoulder. 

"  If  the  noble  Crichton  be  compatriot  of  yours,  you  are  in 
the  right  to  be  proud  of  him,*  replied  Captain  Larchant,  "for 
the  memory  of  his  deeds  of  this  day  will  live  as  long  as  learn- 
ing shall  be  held  in  reverence.  Never  before  hath  such  a  mar- 
velous display  of  universal  erudition  been  heard  within  these 
schools.  By  my  faith,  I  am  absolutely  wonder-stricken,  and  not 
I  alone,  but  all.  In  proof  of  which  I  need  only  tell  you,  that 
coupling  his  matchless  scholarship  with  his  extraordinary  accom- 
plishments, the  professors  in  their  address  to  him  at  the  close 
of  the  controversy  have  bestowed  upon  him  the  epithet  of 
*  Admirable  * —  an  appellation  by  which  he  will  ever  after  be  dis- 
tinguished, * 


MARK  AKENSIDE 


253 


"The  Admirable  Crichton!"  echoed  Ogilvy  —  "hear  you  that! 
—  a  title  adjudged  to  him  by  the  whole  conclave  of  the  univer- 
sity—  hurrah!  The  Admirable  Crichton!  'Tis  a  name  will  find 
an  echo  in  the  heart  of  every  true  Scot.  By  Saint  Andrew!  this 
is  a  proud  day  for  us.* 

"In  the  mean  time,"  said  Larchant,  smiling  at  Ogilvy's  ex- 
ultations, and  describing  a  circle  with  the  point  of  his  lance,  "  I 
must  trouble  you  to  stand  back,  Messieurs  Scholars,  and  leave 
free  passage  for  the  rector  and  his  train  —  Archers  advance,  and 
make  clear  the  way,  and  let  the  companies  of  the  Baron  D'Eper- 
non  and  of  the  Vicomte  de  Joyeuse  be  summoned,  as  well  as  the 
guard  of  his  excellency,  Seigneur  Ren6  de  Villequier.  Patience, 
messieurs,  you  will  hear  all  particulars  anon." 

So  saying,  he  retired,  and  the  men-at-arms,  less  complaisant 
than  their  leaders,  soon  succeeded  in  forcing  back  the  crowd. 


MARK  AKENSIDE 
(1721-1770) 

[ark  Akenside  is  of  less  importance  in  genuine  poetic  rank 
than  in  literary  history.  He  was  technically  a  real  poet; 
but  he  had  not  a  great,  a  spontaneous,  nor  a  fertile  poeti- 
cal mind.  Nevertheless,  a  writer  who  gave  pleasure  to  a  generation 
cannot  be  set  aside.  The  fact  that  the  mid-eighteenth  century  ranked 
him  among  its  foremost  poets  is  interest- 
ing and  still  significant.  It  determines  the 
poetic  standard  and  product  of  that  age; 
and  the  fact  that,  judged  thus,  Akenside 
was  fairly  entitled  to  his  fame. 

He  was  the  son  of  a  butcher,  born  No- 
vember 9th,  1 72 1,  in  Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
whence  Eldon  and  Stowell  also  sprang. 
He  attracted  great  attention  by  an  early 
poem,  *The  Virtuoso.*  The  citizens  of  that 
commercial  town  have  always  appreciated 
their  gjeat  men  and  valued  intellectual  dis- 
tinction, and  its  Dissenters  sent  him  at 
their  own  expense  to  Edinburgh   to  study  Mark  Akenside 

for  the  Presbyterian  ministry.    A  year  later 
he  gave  up   theology  for  medicine  —  honorably  repaying  the  money 


2^4  '  MARK  AKENSIDE 

advanced  for  his  divinity  studies,  if  obviously  out  of  some  one's  else 
pocket. 

After  some  struggle  in  provincial  towns,  his  immense  literary 
reputation  —  for  at  twenty-four  he  was  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude 
in  Great  Britain  —  and  the  generosity  of  a  friend  enabled  him  to  ac- 
quire a  fashionable  London  practice.  He  wrote  medical  treatises 
which  at  the  time  made  him  a  leader  in  his  profession,  secured  a 
rich  clientage,  and  prospered  greatly.  In  1759  he  was  made  physi- 
cian to  Christ's  Hospital,  where,  however  valued  professionally,  he  is 
charged  with  being  brutal  and  offensive  to  the  poor;  with  indulging 
his  fastidiousness,  temper,  and  pomposity,  and  with  forgetting  that 
he  owed  anything  to  mere  duty  or  humanity. 

Unfortunately,  too,  Akenside  availed  himself  of  that  mixture  of 
complaisance  and  arrogance  by  which  almost  alone  a  man  of  no  birth 
can  rise  in  a  society  graded  by  birth.  He  concealed  his  origin  and 
was  ashamed  of  his  pedigree.  But  the  blame  for  his  fiunkeyism 
belongs,  perhaps,  less  to  him  than  to  the  insolent  caste  feeling  of 
society,  which  forced  it  on  him  as  a  measure  of  self-defense  and  of 
advancement.  He  wanted  money,  loved  place  and  selfish  comfort, 
and  his  nature  did  not  balk  at  the  means  of  getting  them,  —  includ- 
ing living  on  a  friend  when  he  did  not  need  such  help.  To  become 
physician  to  the  Queen,  he  turned  his  coat  from  Whig  to  Tory;  but 
no  one  familiar  with  the  politics  of  the  time  will  regard  this  as  an 
unusual  offense.  It  must  also  be  remembered  that  Akenside  pos- 
sessed a  delicate  constitution,  keen  senses,  and  irritable  nerves;  and 
that  he  was  a  parvenu,  lacking  the  power  of  self-control  even  among 
strangers.  These  traits  explain,  though  they  do  not  excuse,  his  bad 
temper  to  the  unclean  and  disagreeable  patients  of  the  hospital,  and 
they  mitigate  the  fact  that  his  industry  was  paralyzed  by  material 
prosperity,  and  his  self-culture  interfered  with  by  conceit.  His  early 
and  sweeping  success  injured  him  as  many  a  greater  man  has  been 
thus  injured. 

Moreover,  his  temper  was  probably  soured  by  secret  bitternesses. 
His  health,  his  nerves,  an  entire  absence  of  the  sense  of  humor,  and 
his  lack  of  repartee,  made  him  shun  like  Pope  and  Horace  Walpole 
the  bibulous  and  gluttonous  element  of  eighteenth-century  British 
society.  For  its  brutal  horseplay  and  uncivil  practical  joking  which 
passed  for  wit,  Akenside  had  no  tolerance,  yet  he  felt  unwilling  to 
go  where  he  would  be  outshone  by  inferior  men.  His  strutty  arro- 
gance of  manner,  like  excessive  prudery  in  a  woman,  may  have  been 
a  fortification  to  a  garrison  too  weak  to  fight  in  the  open  field.  And 
it  must  be  admitted  that,  as  so  often  happens,  Akenside's  outward 
ensemble  was  eminently  what  the  vulgar  world  terms  ^^guyable.*^  He 
was  not  a  little  of  a  fop.      He  was  plain-featured  and  yet  assuming 


MARK  AKENSIDE 


255 


in  manner.  He  hobbled  in  walking  from  lameness  of  tell-tale  origin, 
—  a  cleaver  falling  on  his  foot  in  childhood,  compelling  him  to  wear 
an  artificial  heel  —  and  he  was  morbidly  sensitive  over  it.  His  prim 
formality  of  manner,  his  sword  and  stiff-curled  wig,  his  small  and 
sickly  face  trying  to  maintain  an  expression  impressively  dignified, 
made  him  a  ludicrous  figure,  which  his  contemporaries  never  tired 
of  ridiculing  and  caricaturing.  Henderson,  the  actor,  said  that  <<Aken- 
side,  when  he  walked  the  streets,  looked  for  all  the  world  like  one 
of  his  own  Alexandrines  set  upright.  ^^  Smollett  even  used  him  as 
a  model  for  the  pedantic  doctor  in  ^Peregrine  Pickle,*  who  gives  a 
dinner  in  the  fashion  of  the  ancients,  and  dresses  each  dish  according 
to  humorous  literary  recipes. 

But  there  were  those  who  seem  to  have  known  an  inner  and  supe- 
rior personality  beneath  the  brusqueness,  conceit,  and  policy,  beyond 
the  nerves  and  fears;  and  they  valued  it  greatly,  at  least  on  the 
intellectual  side.  A  wealthy  and  amiable  young  Londoner,  Jeremiah 
Dyson,  remained  a  friend  so  enduring  and  admiring  as  to  give  the 
poet  a  house  in  Bloomsbury  Square,  with  ;i{^3oo  a  year  and  a  chariot, 
and  personally  to  extend  his  medical  practice.  We  cannot  suppose 
this  to  be  a  case  of  patron  and  parasite.  Other  men  of  judgment 
showed  like  esteem.  And  in  congenial  society,  Akenside  was  his  best 
and  therefore  truest  self.  He  was  an  easy  and  even  brilliant  talker, 
displaying  learning  and  immense  memory,  taste,  and  philosophic  re- 
flection; and  as  a  volunteer  critic  he  has  the  unique  distinction  of  a 
man  who  had  what  books  he  liked  given  him  by  the  publishers  for 
the  sake  of  his  oral  comments! 

The  standard  edition  of  Akenside's  poems  is  that  edited  by  Alex- 
ander Dyce  (London,  1835).  Few  of  them  require  notice  here.  His 
early  effort,  *The  Virtuoso,*  was  merely  an  acknowledged  and  servile 
imitation  of  Spenser.  The  claim  made  by  the  poet's  biographers 
that  he  preceded  Thomson  in  reintroducing  the  Spenserian  stanza  is 
groundless.  Pope  preceded  him,  and  Thomson  renewed  its  popu- 
larity by  being  the  first  to  use  it  in  a  poem  of  real  merit,  *The 
Castle  of  Indolence.*  Mr.  Gosse  calls  the  <Hymn  to  the  Naiads* 
*  beautiful, **  —  <*of  transcendent  merit,**  —  ^<  perhaps  the  most  elegant 
of  his  productions.**  The  ^Epistle  to  Curio,*  however,  must  be  held 
his  best  poem, — doubtless  because  it  is  the  only  one  which  came 
from  his  heart;  and  even  its  merit  is  much  more  in  rhetorical  energy 
than  in  art  or  beauty.  As  to  its  allusion  and  object,  the  real  and 
classic  Curio  of  Roman  social  history  was  a  protege  of  Cicero's,  a  rich 
young  Senator,  who  began  as  a  champion  of  liberty  and  then  sold 
himself  to  Caesar  to  pay  his  debts.  In  Akenside's  poem.  Curio  repre- 
sents William  Pulteney,  Walpole's  antagonist,  the  hope  of  that  younger 
generation  who  hated  Walpole's  system   of  parliamentary  corruption 


256  '  MARK  AKENSIDE 

and  official  jobbing.  This  party  had  looked  to  Pulteney  for  a  clean 
and  public-spirited  administration.  Their  hero  was  carried  to  a  brief 
triumph  on  the  wave  of  their  enthusiasm.  But  Pulteney  disappointed 
them  bitterly:  he  took  a  peerage,  and  sunk  into  utter  and  perma- 
nent political  damnation,  with  no  choice  but  Walpole's  methods  and 
tools,  no  policy  save  Walpole's  to  redeem  the  withdrawal  of  so  much 
lofty  promise,  and  no  aims  but  personal  advancement.  From  Aken- 
side's  address  to  him,  the  famous  < Epistle  to  Curio,*  a  citation  is 
made  below.  Akenside's  fame,  however,  rests  on  the  ^Pleasures  of 
the  Imagination.*  He  began  it  at  seventeen;  though  in  the  case  of 
works  begun  in  childhood,  it  is  safer  to  accept  the  date  of  finishing 
as  the  year  of  the  real  composition.  He  published  it  six  years  later, 
in  1744,  on  the  advice  and  with  the  warm  admiration  of  Pope,  a  man 
never  wasteful  of  encomiums  on  the  poetry  of  his  contemporaries.  It 
raised  its  author  to  immediate  fame.  It  secures  him  a  place  among 
the  accepted  English  classics  still.  Yet  neither  its  thought  nor  its 
style  makes  the  omission  to  read  it  any  irreparable  loss.  It  is  culti- 
vated rhetoric  rather  than  true  poetry.  Its  chief  merit  and  highest 
usefulness  are  that  it  suggested  two  far  superior  poems,  Campbell's 
*  Pleasures  of  Hope*  and  Rogers's  *  Pleasures  of  Memory.*  It  is  the 
relationship  to  these  that  really  keeps  Akenside's  alive. 

In  scope,  the  poem  consists  of  two  thousand  lines  of  blank  verse. 
It  is  distributed  in  three  books.  The  first  defines  the  sources,  meth- 
ods, and  results  of  imagination;  the  second  its  distinction  from  phi- 
losophy and  its  enchantment  by  the  passions;  the  third  sets  forth 
the  power  of  imagination  to  give  pleasure,  and  illustrates  its  mental 
operation.  The  author  remodeled  the  poem  in  1757,  but  it  is  gener- 
ally agreed  that  he  injured  it.  Macaulay  says  he  spoiled  it,  and 
another  critic  delightfully  observes  that  he  <<  stuffed  it  with  intel- 
lectual horsehair.** 

The  year  of  Akenside's  death  (1770)  gave  birth  to  Wordsworth. 
The  freer  and  nobler  natural  school  of  poetry  came  to  supplant  the 
artificial  one,  belonging  to  an  epoch  of  wigs  and  false  calves,  and  to 
open  toward  the  far  greater  one  of  the  romanticism  of  Scott  and 
Byron. 


MARK  AKENSIDE  257 


•FROM  THE   EPISTLE  TO  CURIO 

[With  this  earlier  and  finer  form  of  Akenside's  address  to  the  tmstable 
Pulteney  (see  biographical  sketch  above)  must  not  be  confused  its  later 
embodiment  among  his  odes;  of  which  it  is  <IX:  to  Curio. >  Much  of  its 
thought  and  diction  were  transferred  to  the  Ode  named;  but  the  latter  by  no 
means  happily  compares  with  the  original  <Epistle.>  Both  versions,  however, 
are  of  the  same  year,  1744.  J 

THRICE  has  the  spring  beheld  thy  faded  fame, 
And  the  fourth  winter  rises  on  thy  shame. 
Since  I  exulting  grasped  the  votive  shell. 
In  sounds  of  triumph  all  thy  praise  to  tell; 
Blest  could  my  skill  through  ages  make  thee  shine. 
And  proud  to  mix  my  memory  with  thine. 
But  now  the  cause  that  waked  my  song  before, 
"With  praise,  with  triumph,  crowns  the  toil  no  more. 
If  to  the  glorious  man  whose  faithful  cares, 
Nor  quelled  by  malice,  nor  relaxed  by  years. 
Had  awed  Ambition's  wild  audacious  hate. 
And  dragged  at  length  Corruption  to  her  fate; 
If  every  tongue  its  large  applauses  owed. 
And  well-earned  laurels  every  muse  bestowed; 
If  public  Justice  urged  the  high  reward, 
And  Freedom  smiled  on  the  devoted  bard: 
Say  then, — to  him  whose  levity  or  lust 
Laid  all  a  people's  generous  hopes  in  dust. 
Who  taught  Ambition  firmer  heights  of  power 
And  saved  Corruption  at  her  hopeless  hour. 
Does  not  each  tongue  its  execrations  owe  ? 
Shall  not  each  Muse  a  wreath  of  shame  bestow? 
And  public  Justice  sanctify  the  award? 
And  Freedom's  hand  protect  the  impartial  bard? 

There  are  who  say  they  viewed  without  amaze 
The  sad  reverse  of  all  thy  former  praise; 
That  through  the  pageants  of  a  patriot's  name, 
They  pierced  the  foulness  of  thy  secret  aim; 
Or  deemed  thy  arm  exalted  but  to  throw 
The  public  thunder  on  a  private  foe. 
But  I,  whose  soul  consented  to  thy  cause, 
Who  felt  thy  genius  stamp  its  own  applause, 
Who  saw  the  spirits  of  each  glorious  age 
Move  in  thy  bosom,  and  direct  thy  rage, — 
I— 17 


258 


MARK  AKENSIDE 

I  scorned  the  ungenerous  gloss  of  slavish  minds, 

The  owl-eyed  race,  whom  Virtue's  lustre  blinds. 

Spite  of  the  learned  in  the  ways  of  vice, 

And  all  who  prove  that  each  man  has  his  price, 

I  still  believed  thy  end  was  just  and  free; 

And  yet,  even  yet  believe  it  —  spite  of  thee. 

Even  though  thy  mouth  impure  has  dared  disclaim. 

Urged  by  the  wretched  impotence  of  shame. 

Whatever  filial  cares  thy  zeal  had  paid 

To  laws  infirm,  and  liberty  decayed; 

Has  begged  Ambition  to  forgive  the  show; 

Has  told  Corruption  thou  wert  ne'er  her  foe; 

Has  boasted  in  thy  country's  awful  ear. 

Her  gross  delusion  when  she  held  thee  dear; 

How  tame  she  followed  thy  tempestuous  call. 

And  heard  thy  pompous  tales,  and  trusted  all  — 

Rise  from  your  sad  abodes,  ye  curst  of  old 

For  laws  subverted,  and  for  cities  sold! 

Paint  all  the  noblest  trophies  of  your  guilt, 

The  oaths  you  perjured,  and  the  blood  you  spilt; 

Yet  must  you  one  untempted  vileness  own. 

One  dreadful  palm  reserved  for  him  alone: 

With  studied  arts  his  country's  praise  to  spurn, 

To  beg  the  infamy  he  did  not  earn, 

To  challenge  hate  when  honor  was  his  due. 

And  plead  his  crimes  where  all  his  virtue  knew. 


When  they  who,  loud  for  liberty  and  laws, 
In  doubtful  times  had  fought  their  country's  causC; 
When  now  of  conquest  and  dominion  sure, 
They  sought  alone  to  hold  their  fruit  secure; 
When  taught  by  these.  Oppression  hid  the  face, 
To  leave  Corruption  stronger  in  her  place, 
By  silent  spells  to  work  the  public  fate. 
And  taint  the  vitals  of  the  passive  state, 
Till  healing  Wisdom  should  avail  no  more. 
And  Freedom  loath  to  tread  the  poisoned  shore : 
Then,  like  some  guardian  god  that  flies  to  save 
The  weary  pilgrim  from  an  instant  grave. 
Whom,  sleeping  and  secure,  the  guileful  snake 
Steals  near  and  nearer  thro'  the  peaceful  brake,— 
Then  Curio  rose  to  ward  the  public  woe. 
To  wake  the  heedless  and  incite  the  slow. 


MARK  AKENSIDE 

Against  Corruption  Liberty  to  arm. 

And  quell  the  enchantress  by  a  mightier  charm. 

Lo!  the  deciding  hour  at  last  appears; 
The  hour  of  every  freeman's  hopes  and  fears! 

See  Freedom  mounting  her  eternal  throne. 
The  sword  submitted,  and  the  laws  her  own! 
See!  public  Power,  chastised,  beneath  her  stands. 
With  eyes  intent,  and  uncorrupted  hands! 
See  private  life  by  wisest  arts  reclaimed! 
See  ardent  youth  to  noblest  manners  framed! 
See  us  acquire  whate'er  was  sought  by  you. 
If  Curio,  only  Curio  will  be  true. 

'Twas  then  —  O  shame!     O  trust  how  ill  repaid  I 
O  Latium,  oft  by  faithless  sons  betrayed!  — 
'Twas  then  —  What  frenzy  on  thy  reason  stole? 
What  spells  unsinewed  thy  determined  soul?  — 
Is  this  the  man  in  Freedom's  cause  approved? 
The  man  so  great,  so  honored,  so  beloved? 
This  patient  slave  by  tinsel  chains  allured? 
This  wretched  suitor  for  a  boon  abjured? 
This  Curio,  hated  and  despised  by  all? 
Who  fell  himself  to  work  his  country's  fall? 

O  lost,  alike  to  action  and  repose! 
Unknown,  unpitied  in  the  worst  of  woes! 
With  all  that  conscious,  undissembled  pride. 
Sold  to  the  insults  of  a  foe  defied! 
With  all  that  habit  of  familiar  fame, 
Doomed  to  exhaust  the  dregs  of  life  in  shame! 
The  sole  sad  refuge  of  thy  baffled  art 
To  act  a  stateman's  dull,  exploded  part, 
Renounce  the  praise  no  longer  in  thy  power. 
Display  thy  virtue,  though  without  a  dower. 
Contemn  the  giddy  crowd,  the  vulgar  wind. 
And  shut  thy  eyes  that  others  may  be  blind. 

O  long  revered,  and  late  resigned  to  shame! 
If  this  uncourtly  page  thy  notice  claim 
When  the  loud  cares  of  business  are  withdrawn, 
Nor  well-drest  beggars  round  thy  footsteps  fawn; 


259 


260  MARK  AKENSIDE 

In  that  still,  thoughtful,  solitary  hour. 

When  Truth  exerts  her  unresisted  power, 

Breaks  the  false  optics  tinged  with  fortune's  glare. 

Unlocks  the  breast,  and  lays  the  passions  bare: 

Then  turn  thy  eyes  on  that  important  scene, 

And  ask  thyself  —  if  all  be  well  within. 

Where  is  the  heart-felt  worth  and  weight  of  soul. 

Which  labor  could  not  stop,  nor  fear  control  ? 

Where  the  known  dignity,  the  stamp  of  awe. 

Which,  half  abashed,  the  proud  and  venal  saw? 

Where  the  calm  triumphs  of  an  honest  cause  ? 

Where  the  delightful  taste  of  just  applause  ? 

Where  the  strong  reason,  the  commanding  tongue, 

On  which  the  Senate  fired  or  trembling  hung! 

All  vanished,  all  are  sold  —  and  in  their  room. 

Couched  in  thy  bosom's  deep,  distracted  gloom. 

See  the  pale  form  of  barbarous  Grandeur  dwell, 

Like  some  grim  idol  in  a  sorcerer's  cell! 

To  her  in  chains  thy  dignity  was  led; 

At  her  polluted  shrine  thy  honour  bled; 

With  blasted  weeds  thy  awful  brow  she  crowned. 

Thy  powerful  tongue  with  poisoned  philters  bound, 

That  baffled  Reason  straight  indignant  flew. 

And  fair  Persuasion  from  her  seat  withdrew: 

For  now  no  longer  Truth  supports  thy  cause; 

No  longer  Glory  prompts  thee  to  applause; 

No  longer  Virtue  breathing  in  thy  breast. 

With  all  her  conscious  majesty  confest. 

Still  bright  and  brighter  wakes  the  almighty  flame. 

To  rouse  the  feeble,  and  the  willful  tame. 

And  where  she  sees  the  catching  glimpses  roll. 

Spreads  the  strong  blaze,  and  all  involves  the  soul; 

But  cold  restraints  thy  conscious  fancy  chill. 

And  formal  passions  mock  thy  struggling  will; 

Or,  if  thy  Genius  e'er  forget  his  chain. 

And  reach  impatient  at  a  nobler  strain, 

Soon  the  sad  bodings  of  contemptuous  mirth 

Shoot  through  thy  breast,  and  stab  the  generous  birth-. 

Till,  blind  with  smart,  from  truth  to  frenzy  tost, 

And  all  the  tenor  of  thy  reason  lost. 

Perhaps  thy  anguish  drains  a  real  tear; 

While  some  with  pity,  some  with  laughter  hear. 


MARK  AKENSIDE  261 

Ye  mighty  foes  of  liberty  and  rest, 
Give  way,  do  homage  to  a  mightier  guest! 
Ye  daring  spirits  of  the  Roman  race, 
See  Curio's  toil  your  proudest  claims  eflPiace!  — 
Awed  at  the  name,  fierce  Appius  rising  bends, 
And  hardy  Cinna  from  his  throne  attends: 
*He  comes,*  they  cry,  "to  whom  the  fates  assigned 
With  surer  arts  to  work  what  we  designed. 
From  year  to  year  the  stubborn  herd  to  sway. 
Mouth  all  their  wrongs,  and  all  their  rage  obey; 
Till  owned  their  guide,  and  trusted  with  their  power. 
He  mocked  their  hopes  in  one  decisive  hour; 
Then,  tired  and  yielding,  led  them  to  the  chain, 
And  quenched  the  spirit  we  provoked  in  vain.* 
But  thou,  Supreme,  by  whose  eternal  hands 
Fair  Liberty's  heroic  empire  stands; 
Whose  thunders  the  rebellious  deep  control. 
And  quell  the  triumphs  of  the  traitor's  soul, 
O  turn  this  dreadful  omen  far  away! 
On  Freedom's  foes  their  own  attempts  repay; 
Relume  her  sacred  fire  so  near  suppressed. 
And  fix  her  shrine  in  every  Roman  breast: 
Though  bold  corruption  boast  around  the  land, 
"Let  virtue,  if  she  can,  my  baits  withstand!* 
Though  bolder  now  she  urge  the  accursed  claim. 
Gay  with  her  trophies  raised  on  Curio's  shame; 
Yet  some  there  are  who  scorn  her  impious  mirth. 
Who  know  what  conscience  and  a  heart  are  worth. 


ASPIRATIONS  AFTER  THE   INFINITE 
From  <  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination  > 

WHO  that,  from  Alpine  heights,  his  laboring  eye 
Shoots  round  the  wide  horizon,  to  survey 
Nilus  or  Ganges  rolling  his  bright  wave 
Thro'  mountains,  plains,  thro'  empires  black  with  shade, 
And  continents  of  sand,  will  turn  his  gaze 
To  mark  the  windings  of  a  scanty  rill 
That  murmurs  at  his  feet?    The  high-born  soul 
Disdains  to  rest  her  heaven-aspiring  wing 
Beneath  its  native  quarry.     Tired  of  earth 
And  this  diurnal  scene,  she  springs  aloft 
Through  fields  of  air;  pursues  the  flying  storm; 


262  '  MARK   AKENSIDE 

Rides  on  the  volleyed  lightning  through  the  heavens; 

Or,  yoked  with  whirlwinds  and  the  northern  blast, 

Sweeps  the  long  tract  of  day.     Then  high  she  soars 

The  blue  profound,  and,  hovering  round  the  sun. 

Beholds  him  pouring  the  redundant  stream 

Of  light;  beholds  his  unrelenting  sway 

Bend  the  reluctant  planets  to  absolve 

The  fated  rounds  of  Time.     Thence,  far  effused, 

She  darts  her  swiftness  up  the  long  career 

Of  devious  comets;  through  its  burning  signs 

Exulting  measures  the  perennial  wheel 

Of  Nature,  and  looks  back  on  all  the  stars, 

Whose  blended  light,  as  with  a  milky  zone. 

Invests  the  orient.     Now,  amazed  she  views 

The  empyreal  waste,  where  happy  spirits  hold 

Beyond  this  concave  heaven,  their  calm  abode; 

And  fields  of  radiance,  whose  unfading  light 

Has  traveled  the  profound  six  thousand  years, 

Nor  yet  arrived  in  sight  of  mortal  things. 

Even  on  the  barriers  of  the  world,  untired 

She  meditates  the  eternal  depth  below; 

Till  half-recoiling,  down  the  headlong  steep 

She  plunges;  soon  o'erwhelmed  and  swallowed  up 

In  that  immense  of  being.     There  her  hopes 

Rest  at  the  fated  goal.     For  from  the  birth 

Of  mortal  man,  the  sovereign  Maker  said. 

That  not  in  humble  nor  in  brief  delight, 

Nor  in  the  fading  echoes  of  Renown, 

Power's  purple  robes,  nor  Pleasure's  flowery  lap, 

The  soul  should  find  enjoyment:  but  from  these 

Turning  disdainful  to  an  equal  good. 

Through  all  the  ascent  of  things  enlarge  her  view, 

Till  every  bound  at  length  should  disappear, 

And  infinite  perfection  close  the  scene. 


ON  A  SERMON  AGAINST  GLORY 

COME  then,  tell  me,  sage  divine, 
Is  it  an  offense  to  own 
That  our  bosoms  e'er  incline 
Toward  immortal  Glory's  throne  ? 
For  with  me  nor  pomp  nor  pleasure, 
Bourbon's  might,  Braganza's  treasure. 


PEDRO  ANTONIO  DE  ALARCON  263 

So  can  Fancy's  dream  rejoice, 
So  conciliate  Reason's  choice, 
As  one  approving  word  of  her  impartial  voice. 

If  to  spurn  at  noble  praise 

Be  the  passport  to  thy  heaven. 
Follow  thou  those  gloomy  ways: 

No  such  law  to  me  was  given. 
Nor,  I  trust,  shall  I  deplore  me 
Faring  like  my  friends  before  me; 

Nor  an  holier  place  desire 

Than  Timoleon's  arms  acquire, 
And  Tully's  curule  chair,  and  Milton's  golden  lyre. 


PEDRO   ANTONIO   DE   ALARCON 

(1833-1891) 

Jhis  novelist,  poet,  and  politician  was  bom  at  Guadix,  in  Spain, 
near  Granada,  March  loth,  1833,  and  received  his  early  train- 
ing in  the  seminary  of  his  native  city.  His  family  destined 
him  for  the  Church;  but  he  was  averse  to  that  profession,  subse- 
quently studied  law  and  modern  languages  at  the  University  of 
Granada,  and  took  pains  to  cultivate  his  natural  love  for  literature 
and  poetry.  In  1853  he  established  at  Cadiz  the  literary  review  Eco 
del  Occidente  (Echo  of  the  West).  Greatly  interested  in  politics,  he 
joined  a  democratic  club  with  headquarters  at  Madrid.  During  the 
revolution  of  1854  he  published  El  Latigo  (The  Whip),  a  pamphlet  in 
which  he  satirized  the  government.  The  spirit  of  adventure  being 
always  strong  in  him,  he  joined  the  African  campaign  under  O'Don- 
nell  in  1859. 

His  next  occupation  was  the  editorship  of  the  journals  La  Epoca 
and  La  Politica.  Condemned  to  a  brief  period  of  exile  as  one  of  the 
signers  of  a  protest  of  Unionist  deputies,  he  passed  this  time  in 
Paris.  Shortly  after  his  return  he  became  involved  in  the  revolution 
of  1868,  but  without  incurring  personal  disaster.  After  Alfonso  XII. 
came  to  the  throne  in  1875,  he  was  appointed  Councilor  of  State. 

It  was  in  the  domain  of  letters,  however,  and  more  especially  as  a 
novelist,  that  he  won  his  most  enduring  laurels.  In  1855  he  produced 
<E1  Final  de  Norma'  (The  End  of  Norma),  which  was  his  first 
romance  of  importance.  Four  years  later  he  began  to  publish  that 
series  of  notable  novels  which  brought  him  fame,  both  at  home  and 
abroad.     The  list  includes  <E1  Sombrero  de  Tres  Picos*  (The  Three- 


264  PEDRO  ANTONIO   DE  ALARCON 

Cornered  Hat),  a  charming  genre  sketch  famous  for  its  pungent  wit 
and  humor,  and  its  clever  portraiture  of  provincial  life  in  Spain  at 
the  beginning  of  this  century;  <La  Alpujarra^;  <E1  Escandalo^  (The 
Scandal),  a  story  which  at  once  created  a  profound  sensation  because 
of  its  ultramontane  cast  and  opposition  to  prevalent  scientific  opinion; 
<E1  Nino  de  la  Bola>  (The  Child  of  the  Ball),  thought  by  many  to  be 
his  masterpiece;  <E1  Capitan  Veneno*  (Captain  Veneno);  <Novelas 
Cortas*  (Short  Stories),  3  vols.;  and  *La  Prodiga'  (The  Prodigal). 
Alarcon  is  also  favorably  known  as  poet,  dramatic  critic,  and  an 
incisive  and  effective  writer  of  general  prose. 

His  other  publications  comprise:  —  ^Diario  de  un  Testigo  de  la 
Guerra  de  Africa*  (Journal  of  a  Witness  of  the  African  War),  a  work 
which  is  said  to  have  netted  the  publishers  a  profit  of  three  million 
pesetas  ($600,000);  *De  Madrid  a  Napoles'  (from  Madrid  to  Naples); 
*Poesias  Serias  y  Humoristicas *  (Serious  and  Humorous  Poems); 
<Judicios  Literarios  y  Artisticos*  (Literary  and  Artistic  Critiques); 
<Viages  por  Espana*  (Travels  through  Spain);  <E1  Hijo  Prodigo* 
(The  Prodigal  Son),  a  drama  for  children;  and  ^Ultimos  Escritos* 
(Last  Writings).  Alarcon  was  elected  a  member  of  the  Spanish 
Academy  December  15th,  1875.  Many  of  his  novels  have  been  trans- 
lated into  English  and  French.     He  died  July  20th,  1891. 


A  WOMAN  VIEWED   FROM  WITHOUT 

From  <The  Three-Cornered  Hat> 

THE  last  and  perhaps  the  most  powerful  reason  which  the 
quality  of  the  city  —  clergy  as  well  as  laymen,  beginning 
•  with  the  bishop  and  the  corregidor — had  for  visiting  the 
mill  so  often  in  the  afternoon,  was  to  admire  there  at  leisure  one 
of  the  most  beautiful,  graceful,  and  admirable  works  that  ever 
left  the  hands  of  the  Creator:  called  Seiia  [Mrs.]  Frasquita.  Let 
us  begin  by  assuring  you  that  Seiia  Frasquita  was  the  lawful 
spouse  of  Uncle  Luke,  and  an  honest  woman;  of  which  fact  all 
the  illustrious  visitors  of  the  mill  were  well  aware.  Indeed,  none 
of  them  ever  seemed  to  gaze  on  her  with  sinful  eyes  or  doubtful 
purpose.  They  all  admired  her,  indeed,  and  sometimes  paid  her 
compliments,  —  the  friars  as  well  as  the  cavaliers,  the  prebend- 
aries as  well  as  the  magistrate, — as  a  prodigy  of  beauty,  an 
honor  to  her  Creator,  and  as  a  coquettish  and  mischievous  sprite, 
who  innocently  enlivened  the  most  melancholy  of  spirits.  ®  She 
is  a  handsome  creature,**  the  most  virtuous  prelate  used  to  say. 
«She   looks  like   an   ancient   Greek    statue.*    remarked   a   learned 


PEDRO  ANTONIO  DE  ALARCON  265 

advocate,  who  was  an  Academician  and  corresponding  member  on 
history.  "  She  is  the  very  image  of  Eve,  **  broke  forth  the  prior 
of  the  Franciscans.  **  She  is  a  fine  woman,  '*  exclaimed  the  colonel 
of  militia.  ^^  She  is  a  serpent,  a  witch,  a  siren,  an  imp,  *  added  the 
corregidor.  "But  she  is  a  good  woman,  an  angel,  a  lovely  creat- 
ure, and  as  innocent  as  a  child  four  years  old,"  all  agreed  in 
saying  on  leaving  the  mill,  crammed  with  grapes  or  nuts,  on  their 
way  to  their  dull  and  methodical  homes. 

This  four-year-old  child,  that  is  to  say,  Frasquita,  was  nearly 
thirty  years  old,  and  almost  six  feet  high,  strongly  built  in  pro- 
portion, and  even  a  little  stouter  than  exactly  corresponded  to  her 
majestic  figure.  She  looked  like  a  gigantic  Niobe,  though  she 
never  had  any  children;  she  seemed  like  a  female  Hercules,  or 
like  a  Roman  matron,  the  sort  of  whom  there  are  still  copies  to 
be  seen  in  the  Rioni  Trastevere.  But  the  most  striking  feature 
was  her  mobility,  her  agility,  her  animation,  and  the  grace  of  her 
rather  large  person. 

For  resemblance  to  a  statue,  to  which  the  Academician  com- 
pared her,  she  lacked  statuesque  repose.  She  bent  her  body  like 
a  reed,  or  spun  around  like  a  weather-vane,  or  danced  like  a  top. 
Her  features  possessed  even  greater  mobility,  and  in  consequence 
were  even  less  statuesque.  They  were  lighted  up  beautifully  by 
five  dimples:  two  on  one  cheek,  one  on  the  other,  another  very 
small  one  near  the  left  side  of  her  roguish  lips,  and  the  last  — 
and  a  very  big  one  —  in  the  cleft  of  her  rounded  chin.  Add  to 
these  charms  her  sly  or  roguish  glances,  her  pretty  pouts,  and  the 
various  attitudes  of  her  head,  with  which  she  emphasized  her 
talk,  and  you  will  have  some  idea  of  that  face  full  of  vivacity 
and  beauty,  and  always  radiant  with  health  and  happiness. 

Neither  Uncle  Luke  nor  Seiia  Frasquita  was  Andalusian  by 
birth:   she  came  from  Navarre,  and  he   from   Murcia.      He  went 

to   the    city   of  when  he   was  but  fifteen   years  old,  as  half 

page,  half  servant  of  the  bishop,  the  predecessor  of  the  present 
incumbent  of  that  diocese.  He  was  brought  up  for  the  Church 
by  his  patron,  who,  perhaps  on  that  account,  so  that  he  might 
not  lack  competent  maintenance,  bequeathed  him  the  mill  in  his 
will.  But  Uncle  Luke,  who  had  received  only  the  lesser  orders 
when  the  bishop  died,  cast  off  his  ecclesiastical  garb  at  once  and 
enlisted  as  a  soldier;  for  he  felt  more  anxious  to  see  the  world 
and  to  lead  a  life  of  adventure  than  to  say  mass  or  grind  com. 
He  went  through  the  campaign  of  the  Western  Provinces  in 
1793,  as  the  orderly  of  the  brave  General  Ventura  Caro;  he  was 


266  PEDRO  ANTONIO  DE  ALARCON 

present  at  the  siege  of  the  Castle  of  Pinon,  and  remained  a  long 
time  in  the  Northern  Provinces,  when  he  finally  quitted  the  serv- 
ice. In  Estella  he  became  acquainted  with  Sena  Frasquita,  who 
was  then  simply  called  Frasquita;  made  love  to  her,  married 
her,  and  carried  her  to  Andalusia  to  take  possession  of  the  mill, 
where  they  were  to  live  so  peaceful  and  happy  during  the  rest 
of  their  pilgrimage  through  this  vale  of  tears. 

When  Frasquita  was  taken  from  Navarre  to  that  lonely  place 
she  had  not  yet  acquired  any  Andalusian  ways,  and  was  very 
different  from  the  countrywomen  in  that  vicinity.  She  dressed 
with  greater  simplicity,  greater  freedom,  grace,  and  elegance 
than  they  did.  She  bathed  herself  oftener;  and  allowed  the  sun 
and  air  to  caress  her  bare  arms  and  uncovered  neck.  To  a  cer- 
tain extent  she  wore  the  style  of  dress  worn  by  the  gentlewomen 
of  that  period;  like  that  of  the  women  in  Goya's  pictures,  and 
somewhat  of  the  fashion  worn  by  Queen  Maria  Louisa:  if  not 
exactly  so  scant,  yet  so  short  that  it  showed  her  small  feet,  and 
the  commencement  of  her  superb  limbs;  her  bodice  was  low, 
and  round  in  the  neck,  according  to  the  style  in  Madrid,  where 
she  spent  two  months  with  her  Luke  on  their  way  from  Navarre 
to  Andalusia.  She  dressed  her  hair  high  on  the  top  of  her  head, 
displaying  thus  both  the  graceful  curve  of  her  snowy  neck  and 
the  shape  of  her  pretty  head.  She  wore  earrings  in  her  small 
ears,  and  the  taper  fingers  of  her  rough  but  clean  hands  were 
covered  with  rings.  Lastly,  Frasquita's  voice  was  as  sweet  as  a 
flute,  and  her  laugh  was  so  merry  and  so  silvery  it  seemed  like 
the  ringing  of  bells  on  Saturday  of  Glory  or  Easter  Eve. 


HOW  THE   ORPHAN  MANUEL  GAINED  HIS  SOBRIQUET 
From  <The  Child  of  the  Ball> 

THE  unfortunate  boy  seemed  to  have  turned  to  ice  from  the 
cruel  and  unexpected  blows  of  fate;  he  contracted  a  death- 
like pallor,  which  he  never  again  lost.  No  one  paid  any 
attention  to  the  unhappy  child  in  the  first  moments  of  his 
anguish,  or  noticed  that  he  neither  groaned,  sighed,  nor  wept. 
When  at  last  they  went  to  him  they  found  him  convulsed  and 
rigid,  like  a  petrifaction  of  grief;  although  he  walked  about, 
heard  and  saw,  and  covered  his  wounded  and  dying  father  with 
kisses.      But   he  shed  not  a  single  tear,  either  during  the  death 


PEDRO  ANTONIO  DE  ALARCON  267 

agony  of  that  beloved  being,  when  he  kissed  the  cold  face  after 
it  was  dead,  or  when  he  saw  them  carr}^  the  body  away  forever; 
nor  when  he  left  the  house  in  which  he  had  been  bom,  and 
found  himself  sheltered  by  charity  in  the  house  of  a  stranger. 
Some  praised  his  courage,  others  criticized  his  callousness. 
Mothers  pitied  him  profoundly,  instinctively  divining  the  cruel 
tragedy  that  was  being  enacted  in  the  orphan's  heart  for  want 
of  some  tender  and  compassionate  being  to  make  him  weep  by 
weeping  with  him. 

Nor  did  Manuel  utter  a  single  word  from  the  moment  he 
saw  his  beloved  father  brought  in  dying.  He  made  no  answer 
to  the  affectionate  questions  asked  him  by  Don  Trinidad  after  the 
latter  had  taken  him  home ;  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  was  never 
heard  during  the  first  three  years  which  he  spent  in  the  holy 
company  of  the  priest.  Everybody  thought  by  this  time  that 
he  would  remain  dumb  forever,  when  one  day,  in  the  church  of 
which  his  protector  was  the  priest,  the  sacristan  observed  him 
standing  before  a  beautiful  image  of  the  *'  Child  of  the  Ball,  '* 
and  heard  him  saying  in  melancholy  accents:  — 

*  Child  Jesus,  why  do  you  not  speak  either  ?  ^* 

Manuel  was  saved.  The  drowning  boy  had  raised  his  head 
above  the  engulfing  waters  of  his  grief.  His  life  was  no  longer 
in  danger.     So  at  least  it  was  believed  in  the  parish.     .     .     . 

Toward  strangers  —  from  whom,  whenever  they  came  in  con- 
tact with  him,  he  always  received  demonstrations  of  pity  and 
kindness  —  the  orphan  continued  to  maintain  the  same  glacial 
reserve  as  before,  rebuffing  them  with  the  phrase,  stereotyped  on 
his  disdainful  lips,  ^*  Let  me  alone,  now ;  **  having  said  which,  in 
tones  of  moving  entreaty,  he  would  go  on  his  way,  not  with- 
out awakening  superstitious  feelings  in  the  minds  of  the  persons 
whom  he  thus  shunned. 

Still  less  did  he  lay  aside,  at  this  saving  crisis,  the  profound 
sadness  and  precocious  austerity  of  his  character,  or  the  obstinate 
persistence  with  which  he  clung  to  certain  habits.  These  were 
limited,  thus  far,  to  accompanying  the  priest  to  the  church; 
gathering  flowers  or  aromatic  herbs  to  adorn  the  image  of  the 
**  Child  of  the  Ball,  ^*  before  which  he  would  spend  hour  after 
hour,  plunged  in  a  species  of  ecstasy;  and  climbing  the  neighbor- 
ing mountain  in  search  of  those  herbs  and  flowers,  when,  owing 
to  the  severity  of  the  heat  or  cold,  they  were  not  to  be  found  in 
the  fields. 


268  PEDRO  ANTONIO   DE  ALARCON 

This  adoration,  while  in  consonance  with  the  religious  prin- 
ciples instilled  into  him  from  the  cradle  by  his  father,  greatly 
exceeded  what  is  usual  even  in  the  most  devout.  It  was  a 
fraternal  and  submissive  love,  like  that  which  he  had  entertained 
for  his  father;  it  was  a  confused  mixture  of  familiarity,  pro- 
tection, and  idolatry,  very  similar  to  the  feeling  which  the 
mothers  of  men  of  genius  entertain  for  their  illustrious  sons;  it 
was  the  respectful  and  protecting  tenderness  which  the  strong 
warrior  bestows  on  the  youthful  prince;  it  was  an  identification 
of  himself  with  the  image;  it  was  pride;  it  was  elation  as  for  a 
personal  good.  It  seemed  as  if  this  image  symbolized  for  him 
his  tragic  fate,  his  noble  origin,  his  early  orphanhood,  his  poverty, 
his  cares,  the  injustice  of  men,  his  solitary  state  in  the  world, 
and  perhaps  too  some  presentiment  of  his  future  sufferings. 

Probably  nothing  of  all  this  was  clear  at  the  time  to  the  mind 
of  the  hapless  boy,  but  something  resembling  it  must  have  been 
the  tumult  of  confused  thoughts  that  palpitated  in  the  depths  of 
that  childlike,  unwavering,  absolute,  and  exclusive  devotion.  For 
him  there  was  neither  God  nor  the  Virgin,  neither  saints  nor 
angels;  there  was  only  the  "Child  of  the  Ball,*  not  with  relation 
to  any  profound  mystery,  but  in  himself,  in  his  present  form, 
with  his  artistic  figure,  his  dress  of  gold  tissue,  his  crown  of 
false  stones,  his  blonde  head,  his  charming  countenance,  and  the 
blue-painted  globe  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  and  which  was 
surmounted  by  a  little  silver-gilt  cross,  in  sign  of  the  redemption 
of  the  world. 

And  this  was  the  cause  and  reason  why  the  acolytes  of  Santa 
Maria  de  la  Cabeza  first,  all  the  boys  of  the  town  afterward,  and 
finally  the  more  respectable  and  sedate  persons,  bestowed  on 
Manuel  the  extraordinary  name  of  "The  Child  of  the  Ball*:  we 
know  not  whether  by  way  of  applause  of  such  vehement  idolatry, 
and  to  commit  him,  as  it  were,  to  the  protection  of  the  Christ- 
Child  himself;  or  as  a  sarcastic  antiphrasis, —  seeing  that  this 
appellation  is  sometimes  used  in  the  place  as  a  term  of  compar- 
ison for  the  happiness  of  the  very  fortunate;  or  as  a  prophecy 
of  the  valor  for  which  the  son  of  Venegas  was  to  be  one  day 
celebrated,  and  the  terror  he  was  to  inspire, — since  the  most 
hyperbolical  expression  that  can  be  employed  in  that  district,  to 
extol  the  bravery  and  power  of  any  one,  is  to  say  that  "he  does 
not  fear  even  the  <  Child  of  the  Ball.^* 

Selections  used  by  permission  of  Cassell  Publishing  Company 


269 


ALC/EUS 

(Sixth  Century  B.C.) 

jLC^us,  a  contemporary  of  the  more  famous  poet  whom  he 
addressed  as  "violet-crowned,  pure,  sweetly-smiling  Sappho,* 
was  a  native  of  Mitylene  in  Lesbos.  His  period  of  work 
fell  probably  between  610  and  580  B.  C.  At  this  time  his  native 
town  was  disturbed  by  an  unceasing  contention  for  power  between 
the  aristocracy  and  the  people;  and  Al- 
casus,  through  the  vehemence  of  his  zeal 
and  bis  ambition,  was  among  the  leaders 
of  the  warring  faction.  By  the  accidents 
of  birth  and  education  he  was  an  aristo- 
crat, and  in  politics  he  was  what  is  now 
called  a  High  Tory.  With  his  brothers, 
Cicis  and  Antimenidas,  two  influential 
young  nobles  as  arrogant  and  haughty 
as  himself,  he  resented  and  opposed  the 
slightest  concession  to  democracy.  He 
was  a  stout  soldier,  but  he  threw  away 
his  arms  at  Ligetum  when  he  saw  that 
his  side  was  beaten,  and   afterward  wrote 

a  poem  on  this  performance,  apparently  not  in  the  least  mortified  by 
the  recollection.  Horace  speaks  of  the  matter,  and  laughingly  con- 
fesses his  own  like  misadventure. 

When  the  kindly  Pittacus  was  chosen  dictator,  he  was  compelled 
to  banish  the  swashbuckling  brothers  for  their  abuse  of  him.  But 
when  Alcaeus-  chanced  to  be  taken  prisoner,  Pittacus  set  him  free, 
remarking  that  "forgiveness  is  better  than  revenge.'*  The  irrecon- 
cilable poet  spent  his  exile  in  Egypt,  and  there  he  may  have  seen 
the  Greek  oligarch  who  lent  his  sword  to  Nebuchadnezzar,  and  whom 
he  greeted  in  a  poem,  a  surviving  fragment  of  which  is  thus  para- 
phrased by  John  Addington  Symonds:  — 

From  the  ends  of  the  earth  thou  art  come 

Back  to  thy  home; 

The  ivory  hilt  of  thy  blade 

With  gold  is  embossed  and  inlaid; 

Since  for  Babylon's  host  a  great  deed 

Thou  didst  work  in  their  need. 

Slaying  a  warrior,  an  athlete  of  might. 

Royal,  whose  height 

Lacked  of  five  cubits  one  span  — 

A  terrible  man. 


Algous 


270 


ALC^US 


Alcaeus  is  reputed  to  have  been  in  love  with  Sappho,  the  glorious, 
but  only  a  line  or  two  survives  to  confirm  the  tale.  Most  of  his 
lyrics,  like  those  of  his  fellow-poets,  seem  to  have  been  drinking 
songs,  combined,  says  Symonds,  with  reflections  upon  life,  and 
appropriate  descriptions  of  the  different  seasons.  <*No  time  was 
amiss  for  drinking,  to  his  mind:  the  heat  of  summer,  the  cold  of 
winter,  the  blazing  dog-star  and  the  driving  tempest,  twilight  with 
its  cheerful  gleam  of  lamps,  mid-day  with  its  sunshine  —  all  suggest 
reasons  for  indulging  in  the  cup.  Not  that  we  are  justified  in 
fancying  Alcaeus  a  mere  vulgar  toper:  he  retained  -^olian  sumptu- 
ousness  in  his  pleasures,  and  raised  the  art  of  drinking  to  an  aesthetic 
attitude.  ^^ 

Alcaeus  composed  in  the  ^olic  dialect;  for  the  reason,  it  is  said, 
that  it  was  more  familiar  to  his  hearers.  After  his  death  his  poems 
were  collected  and  divided  into  ten  books.  Bergk  has  included  the 
fragments  —  and  one  of  his  compositions  has  come  down  to  us  entire 
—  in  his  ^Poetae  Lyrici  Grsci.^ 

His  love  of  political  strife  and  military  glory  led  him  to  the 
composition  of  a  class  of  poems  which  the  ancients  called  <  Stasiotica  * 
(Songs  of  Sedition).  To  this  class  belong  his  descriptions  of  the 
furnishing  of  his  palace,  and  many  of  the  fragments  preserved  to  us. 
Besides  those  martial  poems,  he  composed  hymns  to  the  gods,  and 
love  and  convivial  songs. 

His  verses  are  subjective  and  impassioned.  They  are  outbursts  of 
the  poet's  own  feeling,  his  own  peculiar  expression  toward  the  world 
in  which  he  lived;  and  it  is  this  quality  that  gave  them  their 
strength  and  their  celebrity.  His  metres  were  lively,  and  the  care 
which  he  expended  upon  his  strophes  has  led  to  the  naming  of  one 
metre  the  <  Alcaic*  Horace  testifies  (Odes  ii.  13,  ii.  26,  etc.),  to  the 
power  of  his  master. 

The  first  selection  following  is  a  fragment  from  his  <  Stasiotica.* 
It  is  a  description  of  the  splendor  of  his  palace  before  *the  work 
of  war  began.* 


THE  PALACE 

FROM  roof  to  roof  the  spacious  palace  halls 
Glitter  with  war's  array; 
With  burnished  metal  clad,  the  lofty  walls 
Beam  like  the  bright  noonday. 
There  white-plumed  helmets  hang  from  many  a  nail. 

Above,  in  threatening  row; 
Steel-garnished  tunics    and  broad  coats  of  mail 
Spread  o'er  the  space  below. 


ALC^US  271 

Chalcidian  blades  enow,  and  belts  are  here. 

Greaves  and  emblazoned  shields; 
Well-tried  protectors  from  the  hostile  spear. 

On  other  battlefields. 
With  these  good  helps  our  work  of  war's  begun. 
With  these  our  victory  must  be  won. 

Translation  of  Colonel  Mure. 


A  BANQUET  SONG 

THE  rain  of  Zeus  descends,  and  from  high  heaven 
A  storm  is  driven: 
And  on  the  running  water-brooks  the  cold 
Lays  icy  hold; 
Then  up:  beat  down  the  winter;  make  the  fire 

Blaze  high  and  higher; 
Mix  wine  as  sweet  as  honey  of  the  bee 

Abundantly ; 
Then  drink  with  comfortable  wool  around 

Your  temples  bound. 
We  must  not  yield  our  hearts  to  woe,  or  wear 

With  wasting  care; 
For  gfrief  will  profit  us  no  whit,  my  friend. 

Nor  nothing  mend; 
But  this  is  our  best  medicine,  with  wine  fraught 
To  cast  out  thought. 

Translation  of  J.  A.  Syraonds. 


AN   INVITATION  . 

WHY  wait  we  for  the  torches'  lights? 
Now  let  us  drink  while  day  invites. 
In  mighty  flagons  hither  bring 
The  deep-red  blood  of  many  a  vine. 
That  we  may  largely  quaff,  and  sing 
The  praises  of  the  god  of  wine. 
The  son  of  Jove  and  Semele. 
Who  gave  the  jocund  grape  to  be 
A  sweet  oblivion  to  our  woes. 

Fill,  fill  the  goblet  —  one  and  two: 
Let  every  brimmer,  as  it  flows. 

In  sportive  chase,  the  last  pursue. 

Translation  of  Sir  William  Jones. 


2  72  ALC^US 


THE   STORM 


NOW  here,  now  there,  the  wild  waves  sweep, 
Whilst  we,  betwixt  them    o'er  the  deep, 
In  shatter'd  tempest-beaten  bark, 
With  laboring  ropes  are  onward  driven, 

The  billows  dashing  o'er  our  dark 
Upheaved  deck  —  in  tatters  riven 

Our  sails  —  whose  yawning  rents  between 
The  raging  sea  and  sky  are  seen. 

Loose  from  their  hold  our  anchors  burst, 

And  then  the  third,  the  fatal  wave 
Comes  rolling  onward  like  the  first, 

And  doubles  all  our  toil  to  save. 

Translation  of  Sir  William  Jones. 


THE   POOR   FISHERMAN 

THE  fisher  Diotimus  had,  at  sea 
And  shore,  the  same  abode  of  poverty  — 
His  trusty  boat;  —  and  when  his  days  were  spent. 
Therein  self-rowed  to  ruthless  Dis  he  went; 
For  that,  which  did  through  life  his  woes  beguile. 
Supplied  the  old  man  with  a  funeral  pile. 

Translation  of  Sir  William  Jones. 


THE   STATE 

WHAT  constitutes  a  State  ? 
Not  high-raised  battlement,  or  labored  mound. 
Thick  wall  or  moated  gate; 
Not  cities  fair,  with  spires  and  turrets  crown'd; 

No:  —  Men,  high-minded  men. 
With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake  or  den. 
As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude:  — 

Men  who  their  duties  know. 
But  know  their  rights,  and  knowing,  dare  maintain; 

Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow, 
And  crush  the  tyrant,  while  they  rend  the  chain. 

Translation  of  Sir  William  JoneSc 


BALTAZAR  DE  ALCAZAR  ^73 


POVERTY 

THE  worst  of  ills,  and  hardest  to  endure, 
Past  hope,  past  cure. 
Is  Penury,  who,  with  her  sister-mate 
Disorder,  soon  brings  down  the  loftiest  state, 
And  makes  it  desolate. 
This  truth  the  sage  of  Sparta  told, 

Aristodemus  old, — 
"Wealth  makes  the  man.**     On  him  that's  poor. 
Proud  worth  looks  down,  and  honor  shuts  the  door. 

Translation  of  Sir  William  Jones. 


BALTAZAR   DE  ALCAZAR 

(1530?-!  606) 

[LTHOUGH  little  may  be  realized  now  of  Alcazar's  shadowy  per< 
sonality,  there  is  no  doubt  that  in  his  own  century  he  was 
widely  read.  Born  of  a  very  respectable  family  in  Seville, 
either  in  1530  or  1531.  he  first  appears  as  entering  the  Spanish  navy, 
and  participating  in  several  battles  on  the  war  galleys  of  the  Mar- 
quis of  Santa  Cruz.  It  is  known  that  for  about  twenty  years  he 
was  alcalde  or  mayor  at  the  Molares  on  the  outskirts  of  Utrera, — 
an  important  local  functionary,  a  practical  man  interested  in  public 
affairs. 

But,  on  the  whole,  his  seems  to  have  been  a  strongly  artistic 
nature;  for  he  was  a  musician  of  repute,  skillful  too  at  painting,  and 
above  all  a  poet.  As  master  and  model  in  metrical  composition  he 
chose  Martial,  and  in  his  epigrammatic  turn  he  is  akin  to  the  great 
Latin  poet.  He  was  fond  of  experimenting  in  Latin  lyrical  forms, 
and  wrote  many  madrigals  and  sonnets.  They  are  full  of  vigorous 
thought  and  bright  satire,  of  playful  malice  and  epicurean  joy  in  life, 
and  have  always  won  the  admiration  of  his  fellow-poets.  As  has 
been  said,  they  show  a  fine  taste,  quite  in  advance  of  the  age. 
Cervantes,  his  greater  contemporary,  acknowledged  his  power  with 
cordial  praise  in  the  Canto  de  Caliope. 

The  *  witty  Andalusian"  did  not  write  voluminously.     Some  of  his 
poems  still  remain  in  manuscript  only.     Of  the  rest,  comprised  in  one 
small    volume,    perhaps   the    best    known    are    ^  The    Jovial    Supper,  * 
<The  Echo,*  and  the  < Counsel  to  a  Widow.* 
I— 18 


2  74  baltAzar  de  alcazar 


SLEEP 


SLEEP  is  no  servant  of  the  will, 
It  has  caprices  of  its  own: 
When  most  pursued, — 'tis  swiftly  gone; 
When  courted  least,  it  lingers  still. 
With  its  vagaries  long  perplext, 

I  turned  and  turned  my  restless  sconce. 
Till  one  bright  night,  I  thought  at  once 
I'd  master  it;  so  hear  my  text! 

When  sleep  will  tarry,  I  begin 

My  long  and  my  accustomed  prayer; 

And  in  a  twinkling  sleep  is  there. 
Through  my  bed-curtains  peeping  in. 
When  sleep  hangs  heavy  on  my  eyes, 

I  think  of  debts  I  fain  would  pay; 

And  then,  as  flies  night's  shade  from  day. 
Sleep  from  my  heavy  eyelids  flies. 

And  thus  controlled  the  winged  one  bends 

Ev'n  his  fantastic  will  to  me; 

And,  strange,  yet  true,  both  I  and  he 
Are  friends,  —  the  very  best  of  friends. 
We  are  a  happy  wedded  pair. 

And  I  the  lord  and  she  the  dame; 

Our  bed  —  our  board  —  our  hours  the  same. 
And  we're  united  everywhere, 

I'll  tell  you  where  I  learnt  to  school 

This  wayward  sleep:  —  a  whispered  word 
From  a  church-going  hag  I  heard, 

And  tried  it  —  for  I  was  no  fool. 

So  from  that  very  hour  I  knew 

That  having  ready  prayers  to  pray, 
And  having  many  debts  to  pay. 

Will  serve  for  sleep  and  waking  too. 

From  Longfellow's  <  Poets  of  Europe  >:  by  permission  of  Houghton,  MiflSin  and 

Company 

THE  JOVIAL  SUPPER 

IN  Jaen,  where  I  reside. 
Lives  Don  Lopez  de  Sosa; 
And  I  will  tell  thee,  Isabel,  a  thing 
The  most  daring  that  thou  hast  heard  of  him. 


baltAzar  de  alcazar  375 

This  gentleman  had 

A  Portuguese  serving  man    .     .     . 

However,  if  it  appears  well  to  you,  Isabel, 

Let  us  first  take  supper. 

We  have  the  table  ready  laid, 

As  we  have  to  sup  together; 

The  wine-cups  at  their  stations 

Are  only  wanting  to  begin  the  feast. 

Let  us  commence  with  new,  light  wine, 

And  cast  upon  it  benediction; 

I  consider  it  a  matter  of  devotion 

To  sign  with  cross  that  which  I  drink. 

Be  it  or  not  a  modern  invention, 

By  the  living  God  I  do  not  know; 

But  most  exquisite  was 

The  invention  of  the  tavern. 

Because,  I  arrive  thirsty  there, 

I  ask  for  new-made  wine. 

They  mix  it,  give  it  to  me,  I  drink, 

I  pay  for  it,  and  depart  contented. 

That,  Isabel,  is  praise  of  itself. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  laud  it. 

I  have  only  one  fault  to  find  with  it. 

That  is  —  it  is  finished  with  too  much  haste. 

But  say,  dost  thou  not  adore  and  prize 

The  illustrious  and  rich  black  pudding? 

How  the  rogue  tickles! 

It  must  contain  spices. 

How  it  is  stuffed  with  pine  nuts! 

But  listen  to  a  subtle  hint. 

You  did  not  put  a  lamp  there  ? 

How  is  it  that  I  appear  to  see  two  ? 

But  these  are  foolish  questions, 

Already  know  I  what  it  must  be: 

It  is  by  this  black  draught 

That  the  number  of  lamps  accumulates. 

[The  several  courses  are  ended,  and  the  jovial  diner  resolves  to  finish  his 
story.] 

And  now,  Isabel,  as  we  have  supped 
So  well,  and  with  so  much  enjoyment. 


2^6  ALCIPHRON 

It  appears  to  be  but  right 
To  return  to  the  promised  tale. 
But  thou  must  know,  Sister  Isabel, 
That  the  Portuguese  fell  sick    .     . 
Eleven  o'clock  strikes,  I  go  to  sleep. 
Wait  for  the  morrow. 


ALCIPHRON 

(Second  Century  A.  D.) 
BY  HARRY  THURSTON  PECK 

[N  THE  history  of  Greek  prose  fiction  the  possibilities  of  the 
epistolary  form  were  first  developed  by  the  Athenian  teacher 
of  rhetoric,  Alciphron,  of  whose  life  and  personality  noth- 
ing is  known  except  that  he  lived  in  the  second  century  A.  D., — a 
contemporary  of  the  great  satirical  genius  Lucian.  Of  his  writings 
we  now  possess  only  a  collection  of  imaginary  letters,  one  hundred 
and  eighteen  in  number,  arranged  in  three  books.  Their  value 
depends  partly  upon  the  curious  and  interesting  pictures  given  in 
them  of  the  life  of  the  post-Alexandrine  period,  especially  of  the 
low  life,  and  partly  upon  the  fact  that  they  are  the  first  successful 
attempts  at  character-drawing  to  be  found  in  the  history  of  Greek 
prose  fiction.  They  form  a  connecting  link  between  the  novel  of 
pure  incident  and  adventure,  and  the  more  fully  developed  novel 
which  combines  incident  and  adventure  with  the  delineation  of  char- 
acter and  the  study  of  motive.  The  use  of  the  epistolary  form  in 
fictitious  composition  did  not,  to  be  sure,  originate  with  Alciphron,- 
for  we  find  earlier  instances  in  the  imaginary  love-letters  composed 
in  verse  by  the  Roman  poet,  Ovid,  under  the  names  of  famous 
women  of  early  legend,  such  as  those  of  CEnone  to  Paris  (which 
suggested  a  beautiful  poem  of  Tennyson's),  Medea  to  Jason,  and 
many  others.  In  these  one  finds  keen  insight  into  character,  espe- 
cially feminine  character,  together  with  much  that  is  exquisite  in 
fancy  and  tender  in  expression.  But  it  is  to  Alciphron  that  we  owe 
the  adaptation  of  this  form  of  composition  to  prose  fiction,  and  its 
employment  in  a  far  wider  range  of  psychological  and  social  obser- 
vation. 

The  life  whose  details  are  given  us  by  Alciphron  is  the  life  of 
contemporary  Athens  in  the  persons  of  its  easy-going  population. 
The  writers  whose  letters  we  are  supposed  to-  read  in  reading 
Alciphron    are    peasants,    fishermen,    parasites,    men-about-town,    and 


ALCIPHRON 


277 


courtesans.  The  language  of  the  letters  is  neat,  pointed,  and  appro 
priate  to  the  person  who  in  each  case  is  supposed  to  be  the  writer; 
and  the  details  are  managed  with  considerable  art.  Alciphron  effaces 
all  impression  of  his  own  personality,  and  is  lost  in  the  characters 
who  for  the  time  being  occupy  his  pages.  One  reads  the  letters  as 
he  would  read  a  genuine  correspondence.  The  illusion  is  perfect, 
and  we  feel  that  we  are  for  the  moment  in  the  Athens  of  the  third 
century  before  Christ;  that  we  are  strolling  in  its  streets,  visiting  its 
shops,  its  courts,  and  its  temples,  and  that  we  are  getting  a  whiff  of 
the  ^gean,  mingled  with  the  less  savory  odors  of  the  markets  and 
of  the  wine-shops.  We  stroll  about  the  city  elbowing  our  way 
through  the  throng  of  boatmen,  merchants,  and  hucksters.  Here  a 
barber  stands  outside  his  shop  and  solicits  custom ;  there  an  old 
usurer  with  pimply  face  sits  bending  over  his  accounts  in  a  dingy 
little  office;  at  the  corner  of  the  street  a  crowd  encircles  some  Cheap 
Jack  who  is  showing  off  his  juggling  tricks  at  a  small  three-legged 
table,  making  sea-shells  vanish  out  of  sight  and  then  taking  them 
from  his  mouth.  Drunken  soldiers  pass  and  repass,  talking  bois- 
terously of  their  bouts  and  brawls,  of  their  drills  and  punishments, 
and  the  latest  news  of  their  barracks,  and  forming  a  striking  contrast 
to  the  philosopher,  who,  in  coarse  robes,  moves  with  supercilious 
look  and  an  affectation  of  deep  thought,  in  silence  amid  the  crowd 
that  jostles  him.     The  scene  is  vivid,  striking,  realistic. 

Many  of  the  letters  are  from  women ;  and  in  these,  especially, 
Alciphron  reveals  the  daily  life  of  the  Athenians.  We  see  the  demi- 
monde at  their  toilet,  with  their  mirrors,  their  powders,  their 
enamels  and  rouge-pots,  their  brushes  and  pincers,  and  all  the 
thousand  and  one  accessories.  Acquaintances  come  in  to  make  a 
morning  call,  and  we  hear  their  chatter,  —  Thais  and  Megara  and 
Bacchis,  Hermione  and  Myrrha.  They  nibble  cakes,  drink  sweet 
wine,  gossip  about  their  respective  lovers,  hum  the  latest  songs, 
and  enjoy  themselves  with  perfect  abandon.  Again  we  see  them 
at  their  evening  rendezvous,  at  the  banquets  where  philosophers, 
poets,  sophists,  painters,  artists  of  every  sort,  —  in  fact,  the  whole 
Bohemia  of  Athens,  —  gather  round  them.  We  get  hints  of  all  the 
stages  of  the  revel,  from  the  sparkling  wit  and  the  jolly  good- 
fellowship  of  the  early  evening,  to  the  sodden  disgust  that  comes 
with  daybreak  when  the  lamps  are  poisoning  the  fetid  air  and  the 
remnants  of  the  feast  are  stale. 

We  are  not  to  look  upon  the  letters  of  Alciphron  as  embodying  a 
literary  unity.  He  did  not  attempt  to  write  one  single  symmetrical 
epistolary  romance;  but  the  individual  letters  are  usually  slight 
sketches  of  character  carelessly  gathered  together,  and  deriving 
their  greatest  charm  from  their  apparent  spontaneity  and  artlessness. 


ALCIPHRON 

Many  of  them  are,  to  be  sure,  unpleasantly  cynical,  and  depict  the 
baser  side  of  human  nature;  others,  in  their  realism,  are  essentially 
commonplace;  but  some  are  very  prettily  expressed,  and  show  a 
brighter  side  to  the  picture  of  contemporary  life.  Those  especially 
which  are  supposed  to  pass  between  Menander,  the  famous  comic 
poet,  and  his  mistress  Glycera,  form  a  pleasing  contrast  to  the  greed 
and  cynicism  of  much  that  one  finds  in  the  first  book  of  the  epistles; 
they  are  true  love-letters,  and  are  untainted  by  the  slightest  sug- 
gestion of  the  mercenary  spirit  or  the  veiled  coarseness  that  makes 
so  many  of  the  others  unpleasant  reading.  One  letter  (i.  6)  is 
interesting  as  containing  the  first  allusion  found  in  literature  to  the 
familiar  story  of  Phryne  before  the  judges,  which  is  more  fully  told 
in  Athenasus. 

The  imaginary  letter  was  destined  to  play  an  important  part  in 
the  subsequent  history  of  literature.  Alciphron  was  copied  by 
Aristaenetus,  who  lived  in  the  fifth  century  of  our  era,  and  whose 
letters  have  been  often  imitated  in  modern  times,  and  by  Theophy- 
lactus,  who  lived  in  the  seventh  century.  In  modern  English  fiction 
the  epistolary  form  has  been  most  successfully  employed  by  Rich- 
ardson, Fanny  Burney,  and,  in  another  genre,  by  Wilkie  Collins. 

The  standard  editions  of  Alciphron  are  those  of  Seller  (Leipzig, 
1856)  and  of  Hercher  (Paris,  1873),  the  latter  containing  the  Greek 
text  with  a  parallel  version  in  Latin.  The  letters  have  not  yet  been 
translated  into  English.  The  reader  may  refer  to  the  chapter  on 
Alciphron  in  the  recently  published  work  of  Salverte,  <Le  Roman 
dans  la  Grece  Ancienne*  (The  Novel  in  Ancient  Greece:  Paris, 
1893).     The  following  selections  are  translated  by  the  present  writer. 


ic.tr.  ^ 


J2.CYC 


FROM  A  MERCENARY  GIRL 

PETALA     TO     SIMALION 

WELL,  if  a  girl  could  live  on  tears,  what  a  wealthy  girl  1 
should  be;  for  you  are  generous  enough  with  them,  any- 
how! Unfortunately,  however,  that  isn't  quite  enough 
for  me.  I  need  money;  I  must  have  jewels,  clothes,  servants, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Nobody  has  left  me  a  fortune,  I 
should  like  you  to  know,  or  any  mining  stock;  and  so  I  am 
obliged  to  depend  on  the  little  presents  that  gentlemen  happen 
to  make  me.     Now  that  I've  known  you  a  year,  how  much  better 


ALCIPHRON  279 

off  am  I  for  it,  I  should  like  to  ask  ?  My  head  looks  like  a 
fright  because  I  haven't  had  anything  to  rig  it  out  with,  all  that 
time;  and  as  to  clothes, — why,  the  only  dress  I've  got  in  the 
world  is  in  rags  that  make  me  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  my 
friends:  and  yet  you  imagine  that  I  can  go  on  in  this  way  with- 
out having  any  other  means  of  living!  Oh,  yes,  of  course,  you 
cry;  but  you'll  stop  presently.  I'm  really  surprised  at  the  num- 
ber of  your  tears;  but  really,  unless  somebody  gives  me  some- 
thing pretty  soon  I  shall  die  of  starv'ation.  Of  course,  you 
pretend  you're  just  crazy  for  me,  and  that  you  can't  live  without 
me.  Well,  then,  isn't  there  any  family  silver  in  your  house  ? 
Hasn't  your  mother  any  jewelry  that  you  can  get  hold  of  ? 
Hasn't  your  father  any  valuables  ?  Other  girls  are  luckier  than 
I  am;  for  I  have  a  mourner  rather  than  a  lover.  He  sends  me 
crowns,  and  he  sends  me  garlands  and  roses,  as  if  I  were  deaa 
and  buried  before  my  time,  and  he  says  that  he  cries  all  night. 
Now,  if  you  can  manage  to  scrape  up  something  for  me,  you  can 
come  here  without  having  to  cry  your  eyes  out;  but  if  you  can't, 
why,  keep  your  tears  to  yourself,  and  don't  bother  me! 

From  the  <Epistol8e,>  i.  36. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  ATHENS 

EUTHYDICUS    TO    EPIPHANIO 

BY  ALL  the  gods  and  demons,  I  beg  you,  dear  mother,  to  leave 
your  rocks  and  fields  in  the  country,  and  before  you  die, 
discover  what  beautiful  things  there  are  in  town.  Just  think 
what  you  are  losing, —  the  Haloan  Festival  and  the  Apaturian 
Festival,  and  the  Great  Festival  of  Bacchus,  and  especially  the 
Thesmophorian  Festival,  which  is  now  going  on.  If  you  would 
only  hurry  up,  and  get  here  to-morrow  morning  before  it  is  day- 
light, you  would  be  able  to  take  part  in  the  affair  with  the  other 
Athenian  women.  Do  come,  and  don't  put  it  off,  if  you  have 
any  regard  for  my  happiness  and  my  brothers';  for  it's  an  awful 
thing  to  die  without  having  any  knowledge  of  the  city.  That's 
the  life  of  an  ox;  and  one  that  is  altogether  unreasonable.  Please 
excuse  me,  mother,  for  speaking  so  freely  for  your  own  good. 
After  all,  one  ought  to  speak  plainly  with  everybody,  and  espe^ 
cially  with  those  who  are  themselves  plain  speakers. 

From  the  <Epistolae,>  iii.  39. 


28o  '  ALCIPHRON 

FROM   AN   ANXIOUS   MOTHER 

PHYLLIS     TO     THRASONIDES 

IF  YOU  only  would  put  up  with  the  country  and  be  sensible, 
and  do  as  the  rest  of  us  do,  my  dear  Thrasonides,  you  would 
offer  ivy  and  laurel  and  myrtle  and  flowers  to  the  gods  at 
the  proper  time;  and  to  us,  your  parents,  you  would  give  wheat 
and  wine  and  a  milk-pail  full  of  the  new  goat's-milk.  But  as 
things  are,  you  despise  the  country  and  farming,  and  are  fond 
only  of  the  helmet-plumes  and  the  shield,  just  as  if  you  were  an 
Acamanian  or  a  Malian  soldier.  Don't  keep  on  in  this  way,  my 
son;  but  come  back  to  us  and  take  up  this  peaceful  life  of  ours 
again  (for  farming  is  perfectly  safe  and  free  from  any  danger, 
and  doesn't  require  bands  of  soldiers  and  strategy  and  squad- 
rons), and  be  the  stay  of  our  old  age,  preferring  a  safe  life  to  a 

risky  one. 

From  the  <Epistolse,>  iii.  i6. 

FROM  A  CURIOUS  YOUTH 

PHILOCOMUS    TO    THESTYLUS 

SINCE  I  have  never  yet  been  to  town,  and  really  don't  know  at 
all  what  the  thing  is  that  they  call  a  city,  I  am  awfully  anx- 
ious to  see  this  strange  sight, —  men  living  all  in  one  place, — 
and  to  learn  about  the  other  points  in  which  a  city  differs  from 
the  country.  Consequently,  if  you  have  any  reason  for  going  to 
town,  do  come  and  take  me  with  you.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  am 
sure  there  are  lots  of  things  I  ought  to  know,  now  that  my  beard 
is  beginning  to  sprout;  and  who  is  so  able  to  show  me  the  city 
as  yourself,  who   are   all   the   time   going  back   and   forth   to  the 

town  ? 

From  the  <Epistolae,>  iii.  31. 

FROM  A   PROFESSIONAL   DINER-OUT 

CAPNOSPHRANTES    TO    ARISTOMACHUS 

I  SHOULD  like  to  ask  my  evil  genius,  who  drew  me  by  lot  as  his 
own  particular  charge,  why  he  is  so  malignant  and  so  cruel 
as  to  keep  me  in  everlasting  poverty;   for  if  no  one  happens 
to  invite  me  to  dinner  I  have  to  live  on  greens,  and  to  eat  acorns 
and  to   fill  my  stomach  with  water   from   the   hydrant.     Now,  as 


ALCIPHRON  281 

long  as  my  body  was  able  to  put  up  with  this  sort  of  thing,  and 
my  time  of  life  was  such  as  made  it  proper  for  me  to  bear  it,  I 
could  get  along  with  them  fairly  well;  but  now  that  my  hair  is 
growing  gray,  and  the  only  outlook  I  have  is  in  the  direction  of 
old  age,  what  on  earth  am  I  going  to  do  ?  I  shall  really  have  to 
get  a  rope  and  hang  myself  unless  my  luck  changes.  However, 
even  if  fortune  remains  as  it  is,  I  shan't  string  myself  up  before 
I  have  at  least  one  square  meal;  for  before  very  long,  the  wed- 
ding of  Charitus  and  Leocritis,  which  is  going  to  be  a  famous 
affair,  will  come  off,  to  which  there  isn't  a  doubt  that  I  shall  be 
invited, —  either  to  the  wedding  itself  or  to  the  banquet  after- 
ward. It's  lucky  that  weddings  need  the  jokes  of  brisk  fellows 
like  myself,  and  that  without  us  they  would  be  as  dull  as  gather- 
ings of  pigs  rather  than  of  human  beings! 

From  the  <Epistolae,>  iii.  49. 


P 


UNLUCKY  LUCK 

CHYTROLICTES    TO    PATELLOCHARON 

ERHAPS  you   would   like   to  know  why   I   am   complaining   so. 


and  how  I  got  my  head  broken,  and  why  I'm  going  around 
with  my  clothes  in  tatters.  The  fact  is  I  swept  the  board  at 
gambling:  but  I  wish  I  hadn't;  for  what's  the  sense  in  a  feeble 
fellow  like  me  running  up  against  a  lot  of  stout  young  men  ? 
You  see,  after  I  scooped  in  all  the  money  they  put  up,  and  they 
hadn't  a  cent  left,  they  all  jumped  on  my  neck,  and  some  of 
them  punched  me,  and  some  of  them  stoned  me,  and  some  of 
them  tore  my  clothes  off  my  back.  All  the  same,  I  hung  on  to 
the  money  as  hard  as  I  could,  because  I  would  rather  die  than 
give  up  anything  of  theirs  I  had  got  hold  of;  and  so  I  held  out 
bravely  for  quite  a  while,  not  giving  in  when  they  struck  me,  or 
even  when  they  bent  my  fingers  back.  In  fact,  I  was  like  some 
Spartan  who  lets  himself  be  whipped  as  a  test  of  his  endurance: 
but  unfortunately  it  wasn't  at  Sparta  that  I  was  doing  this  thing, 
but  at  Athens,  and  with  the  toughest  sort  of  an  Athenian  gam- 
bling crowd;  and  so  at  last,  when  actually  fainting,  I  had  to  let 
the  rufhans  rob  me.  They  went  through  my  pockets,  and  after 
they  had  taken  everything  they  could  find,  they  skipped.  After 
all,  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it's  better  to  live  without 
money  than  to  die  with  a  pocket  full  of  it. 

From  the  ^Epistolae,*  iii.  54. 


282 

ALCMAN 

(Seventh  Century  B.  C. ) 

3CCORDING  to  legend,  this  illustrious  Grecian  lyric  poet  was 
born  in  Lydia,  and  taken  to  Sparta  as  a  slave  when  very 
young,  but  emancipated  by  his  master  on  the  discovery  of 
his  poetic  genius.  He  flourished  probably  between  670  and  630,  dur- 
ing the  peace  following  the  Second  Messenian  War,  It  was  that 
remarkable  period  in  which  the  Spartans  were  gathering  poets  and 
musicians  from  the  outer  world  of  liberal  accomplishment  to  educate 
their  children;  for  the  Dorians  thought  it  beneath  the  dignity  of  a 
Dorian  citizen  to  practice  these  things  themselves. 

His  poetic  remains  indicate  a  social  freedom  at  this  period  hardly 
in  keeping  with  the  Spartan  rigor  alleged  to  have  been  practiced 
without  break  from  the  ancient  time  of  Lycurgus;  perhaps  this  com- 
munal asceticism  was  really  a  later  growth,  when  the  camp  of  mili- 
tant slave-holders  saw  their  fibre  weakening  under  the  art  and  luxury 
they  had  introduced.  He  boasts  of  his  epicurean  appetite;  with 
evident  truthfulness,  as  a  considerable  number  of  his  extant  frag- 
ments are  descriptions  of  dishes.  He  would  have  echoed  Sydney 
Smith's  — 

«Fate  cannot  harm  me  —  I  have  dined  to-day. » 

In  a  poem  descriptive  of  spring,  he  laments  that  the  season  affords 
but  a  scanty  stock  of  his  favorite  viands. 

The  Alexandrian  grammarians  put  Alcman  at  the  head  of  the 
lyric  canon;  perhaps  partly  because  they  thought  him  the  most 
ancient,  but  he  was  certainly  much  esteemed  in  classic  times,  ^lian 
says  his  songs  were  sung  at  the  first  performance  of  the  gymnopasdia 
at  Sparta  in  665  B.  C,  and  often  afterward.  Much  of  his  poetry  was 
erotic;  but  he  wrote  also  hymns  to  the  gods,  and  ethical  and  philo- 
sophic pieces.  His  ^Parthenia,^  which  form  a  distinct  division  of 
his  writings,  were  songs  sung  at  public  festivals  by,  and  in  honor  of, 
the  performing  chorus  of  virgins.  The  subjects  were  either  religious 
or  erotic.  His  proverbial  wisdom,  and  the  forms  of  verse  which  he 
often  chose,  are  reputed  to  have  been  like  Pindar's.  He  said  of  him- 
self that  he  sang  like  the  birds, — that  is,  was  self-taught. 

He  wrote  in  the  broad  Spartan  dialect  with  a  mixture  of  the 
uEolic,  and  in  various  metres.  One  form  of  hexameter  which  he 
invented  was  called  Alcmanic  after  him.  His  poems  were  compre- 
hended in  six  books.  The  scanty  fragments  which  have  survived  are 
included  in  Bergk's  ^Poetae  Lyrici  Graeci^  (1878).  The  longest  was 
found   in    1855  by  M.  Mariette,   in  a  tomb  near  the  second  pyramid. 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT 


283 


It  is  a  papyrus  fragment  of  three  pages,  containing  a  part  of  his 
hymn  to  the  Dioscuri,  much  mutilated  and  difficult  to  decipher. 

His  descriptive  passages  are  believed  to  have  been  his  best.  The 
best  known  and  most  admired  of  his  fragments  is  his  beautiful 
description  of  night,  which  has  been  often  imitated  and  paraphrased. 

NIGHT 

OVER  the  drowsy  earth  still  night  prevails; 
Calm  sleep  the  mountain  tops  and  shady  vales, 
The  rugged  cliffs  and  hollow  glens; 
The  cattle  on  the  hill.     Deep  in  the  sea. 

The  countless  finny  race  and  monster  brood 
Tranquil  repose.     Even  the  busy  bee 

Forgets  her  daily  toil.     The  silent  wood 
No  more  with  noisy  hum  of  insect  rings; 
And  all  the  feathered  tribes,  by  gentle  sleep  subdued, 
Roost  in  the  glade,  and  hang  their  drooping  wings. 

Translation  by  Colonel  Mure. 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT 

(1832-1888) 

fouiSA  May  Alcott,  daughter  of  Amos  Bronson  and  Abigail 
(May)  Alcott,  and  the  second  of  the  four  sisters  whom  she 
was  afterward  to  make  famous  in  <  Little  Women,*  was 
born  in  Germantown,  Pennsylvania,  November  29th,  1832,  her  father's 
thirty-third  birthday.  On  his  side,  she 
was  descended  from  good  Connecticut 
stock;  and  on  her  mother's,  from  the  Mays 
and  Quincys  of  Massachusetts,  and  from 
Judge  Samuel  Sewall,  who  has  left  in  his 
diary  as  graphic  a  picture  of  the  New 
England  home-life  of  two  hundred  years 
ago,  as  his  granddaughter  of  the  fifth 
generation  did  of  that  of  her  own  time. 

At  the  time  of  Louisa  Alcott's  birth 
her  father  had  charge  of  a  school  in  Ger- 
mantown; but  within  two  years  he  moved 
to  Boston  with  his  family,  and  put  into 
practice    methods    of    teaching    so    far    in 

advance   of  his  time   that   they   were  unsuccessful.     From    1840,  the 
home  of  the  Alcott  family  was  in  Concord,  Massachusetts,  with   the 


Louisa  M.  Alcott. 


284  LOUISA   MAY   ALCOTT 

exception  of  a  short  time  spent  in  a  community  on  a  farm  in  a 
neighboring  town,  and  the  years  from  1848  to  1857  in  Boston.  At 
seventeen,  Louisa's  struggle  with  life  began.  She  wrote  a  play,  con- 
tributed sensational  stories  to  weekly  papers,  tried  teaching,  sewing. 
—  even  going  out  to  service,  —  and  would  have  become  an  actress 
but  for  an  accident.  What  she  wrote  of  her  mother  is  as  true  of 
herself,  <*  She  always  did  what  came  to  her  in  the  way  of  duty  or 
charity,  and  let  pride,  taste,  and  comfort  suffer  for  love's  sake.**  Her 
first  book,  ^Flower  Fables,*  a  collection  of  fairy  tales  which  she  had 
written  at  sixteen  for  the  children  of  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  some 
other  little  friends,  and  her  younger  sisters,  was  printed  in  1855  and 
was  well  received.  From  this  time  until  1863  she  wrote  many 
stories,  but  few  that  she  afterward  thought  worthy  of  being  re- 
printed. Her  best  work  from  1860  to  1863  is  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
indexed  under  her  name ;  and  the  most  carefully  finished  of  her  few 
poems,  ^  Thoreau's  Flute,  *  appeared  in  that  magazine  in  September, 
1863.  After  six  weeks'  experience  in  the  winter  of  1862-63  ^.s  a 
hospital  nurse  in  Washington,  she  wrote  for  the  Commonwealth,  a 
Boston  weekly  paper,  a  series  of  letters  which  soon  appeared  in  book 
form  as  ^Hospital  Sketches.*  Miss  Alcott  says  of  them,  <<The 
< Sketches*  never  made  much  money,  but  showed  me  <my  style.*** 
In  1864  she  published  a  novel,  ^ Moods*;  and  in  1866,  after  a  year 
abroad  as  companion  to  an  invalid,  she  became  editor  of  Merry's 
Museum,  a  magazine  for  children. 

Her  <  Little  Women,*  founded  on  her  own  family  life,  was  written 
in  1867-68,  in  answer  to  a  request  from  the  publishing  house  of 
Roberts  Brothers  for  a  story  for  girls,  and  its  success  was  so  great 
that  she  soon  finished  a  second  part.  The  two  volumes  were  trans- 
lated into  French,  German,  and  Dutch,  and  became  favorite  books  in 
England.  While  editing  Merry's  Museum,  she  had  written  the  first 
part  of  ^The  Old-Fashioned  Girl*  as  a  serial  for  the  magazine.  After 
the  success  of  < Little  Women,*  she  carried  the  < Old-Fashioned  Girl* 
and  her  friends  forward  several  years,  and  ended  the  story  with  two 
happy  marriages.  In  1870  she  went  abroad  a  second  time,  and  from 
her  return  the  next  year  until  her  death  in  Boston  from  overwork  on 
March  6th,  1888,  the  day  of  her  father's  funeral,  she  published  twenty 
volumes,  including  two  novels:  one  anonymous,  <A  Modern  Mephisto- 
pheles,  *  in  the  *  No  Name  *  series ;  he  other,  <  Work,  *  largely  a  record 
of  her  own  experience.  She  rewrote  ^ Moods,*  and  changed  the  sad 
ending  of  the  first  version  to  a  more  cheerful  one;  followed  the  for- 
tunes of  her  ^Little  Women*  and  their  children  in  < Little  Men*  and 
^Jo's  Boys,*  and  published  ten  volumes  of  short  stories,  many  of 
them  reprinted  pieces.  She  wrote  also  ^ Eight  Cousins,*  its  sequel 
^Rose  in  Bloom,*  < Under  the  Lilacs,*  and  <Jack  and  Jill.* 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT 


285 


The  charm  of  her  books  lies  in  their  freshness,  naturalness,  and 
sympathy  with  the  feelings  and  pursuits  of  boys  and  girls.  She  says 
of  herself,  ^^I  was  born  with  a  boy's  spirit  under  my  bib  and  tucker,* 
and  she  never  lost  it.  Her  style  is  often  careless,  never  elegant,  for 
she  wrote  hurriedly,  and  never  revised  or  even  read  over  her  manu- 
script; yet  her  books  are  full  of  humor  and  pathos,  and  preach  the 
gospel  of  work  and  simple,  wholesome  living.  She  has  been  a  help 
and  inspiration  to  many  young  girls,  who  have  learned  from  her  Jo 
in  < Little  Women,'  or  Polly  in  the  < Old-Fashioned  Girl,>  or  Christie 
in  <Work,>  that  a  woman  carl  support  herself  and  her  family  without 
losing  caste  or  self-respect.  Her  stories  of  the  comradeship  of  New 
England  boys  and  girls  in  school  or  play  have  made  her  a  popular 
author  in  countries  where  even  brothers  and  sisters  see  little  of  each 
other.  The  haste  and  lack  of  care  in  her  books  are  the  result  of 
writing  under  pressure  for  money  to  support  the  family,  to  whom 
she  gave  the  best  years  of  her  life.  As  a  little  girl  once  said  of  her 
in  a  school  essay,  ^*I  like  all  Miss  Alcott's  books;  but  what  I  like  best 
in  them  is  the  author  herself.  * 

The  reader  is  referred  to  *•  Louisa  May  Alcott :  Her  Life,  Letters, 
and  Journals,  *  edited  by  Ednah  D.  Cheney,  published  in  1889. 


THE  NIGHT  WARD 
From  <  Hospital  Sketches  > 

BEING  fond  of  the  night  side  of  nature,  I  was  soon  promoted 
to  the  post  of  night  nurse,  with  every  facility  for  indulging 
in  my  favorite  pastime  of  "owling.*  My  colleague,  a 
black-eyed  widow,  relieved  me  at  dawn,  we  two  taking  care  of 
the  ward  between  us,  like  regular  nurses,  turn  and  turn  about. 
I  usually  found  my  boys  in  the  jolliest  state  of  mind  their  con- 
dition allowed;  for  it  was  a  known  fact  that  Nurse  Periwinkle 
objected  to  blue  devils,  and  entertained  a  belief  that  he  who 
laughed  most  was  surest  of  recovery.  At  the  beginning  of  my 
reign,  dumps  and  dismals  prevailed;  the  nurses  looked  anxious 
and  tired,  the  men  gloomy  or  sad ;  and  a  general  "  Hark-from- 
the -tombs-a-doleful- sound  *  style  of  conversation  seemed  to  be 
the  fashion:  a  state  of  things  which  caused  one  coming  from  a 
merry,  social  New  England  town,  to  feel  as  if  she  had  got  into 
an  exhausted  receiver;  and  the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  to 
say  nothing  of  a  philanthropic  desire  to  serve  the  race,  caused  a 
speedy  change  in  Ward  No.  i. 


286  LOUISA   MAY   ALCOTT 

More  flattering  than  the  most  gracefully  turned  compliment, 
more  grateful  than  the  most  admiring  glance,  was  the  sight  of 
those  rows  of  faces,  all  strange  to  me  a  little  while  ago,  now 
lighting  up  with  smiles  of  welcome  as  I  came  among  them, 
enjoying  that  moment  heartily,  with  a  womanly  pride  in  their 
regard,  a  motherly  affection  for  them  all.  The  evenings  were 
spent  in  reading  aloud,  writing  letters,  waiting  on   and  amusing 

the  men,  going  the  rounds  with  Dr.  P as  he  made  his  second 

daily  survey,  dressing  my  dozen  wounds  afresh,  giving  last  doses, 
and  making  them  cozy  for  the  long  hours  to  come,  till  the  nine 
o'clock  bell  rang,  the  gas  was  turned  down,  the  day  nurses  went 
off  duty,  the  night  watch  came  on,  and  my  nocturnal  adventures 
began. 

My  ward  was  now  divided  into  three  rooms;  and  under  favor 
of  the  matron,  I  had  managed  to  sort  out  the  patients  in  such  a 
way  that  I  had  what  I  called  my  *^  duty  room,  *^  my  *^  pleasure 
room,**  and  my  ^* pathetic  room,**  and  worked  for  each  in  a 
different  way.  One  I  visited  armed  with  a  dressing-tray  full  of 
rollers,  plasters,  and  pins;  another,  with  books,  flowers,  games, 
and  gossip;  a  third,  with  teapots,  lullabies,  consolation,  and  some- 
times a  shroud. 

Wherever  the  sickest  or  most  helpless  man  chanced  to  be, 
there  I  held  my  watch,  often  visiting  the  other  rooms  to  see  that 
the  general  watchman  of  the  ward  did  his  duty  by  the  fires  and 
the  wounds,  the  latter  needing  constant  wetting.  Not  only  on 
this  account  did  I  meander,  but  also  to  get  fresher  air  than  the 
close  rooms  afforded;  for  owing  to  the  stupidity  of  that  myste- 
rious **  somebody  **  who  does  all  the  damage  in  the  world,  the 
windows  had  been  carefully  nailed  down  above,  and  the  lower 
sashes  could  only  be  raised  in  the  mildest  weather,  for  the  men 
lay  just  below.  I  had  suggested  a  summary  smashing  of  a  few 
panes  here  and  there,  when  frequent  appeals  to  headquarters  had 
proved  unavailing  and  daily  orders  to  lazy  attendants  had  come 
to  nothing.  No  one  seconded  the  motion,  however,  and  the  nails 
were  far  beyond  my  reach;  for  though  belonging  to  the  sister- 
hood of  ^'ministering  angels,**  I  had  no  wings,  and  might  as  well 
have  asked  for  a  suspension  bridge  as  a  pair  of  steps  in  that 
charitable  chaos. 

One  of  the  harmless  ghosts  who  bore  me  company  during  the 
haunted  hours  was  Dan,  the  watchman,  whom  I  regarded  with  a 
certain  awe;  for  though  so  much  together,  I  never  fairly  saw  his 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT  287 

tace,  and  but  for  his  legs  should  never  have  recognized  him,  as 
we  seldom  met  by  day.  These  legs  were  remarkable,  as  was  his 
whole  figure:  for  his  body  was  short,  rotund,  and  done  up  in  a 
big  jacket  and  muffler;  his  beard  hid  the  lower  part  of  his  face, 
his  hat-brim  the  upper,  and  all  I  ever  discovered  was  a  pair  of 
sleepy  eyes  and  a  very  mild  voice.  But  the  legs!  —  very  long, 
very  thin,  very  crooked  and  feeble,  looking  like  gray  sausages  in 
their  tight  coverings,  and  finished  off  with  a  pair  of  expansive 
green  cloth  shoes,  very  like  Chinese  junks  with  the  sails  down. 
This  figure,  gliding  noiselessly  about  the  dimly  lighted  rooms, 
was  strongly  suggestive  of  the  spirit  of  a  beer-barrel  mounted  on 
corkscrews,  haunting  the  old  hotel  in  search  of  its  lost  mates, 
emptied  and  staved  in  long  ago. 

Another  goblin  who  frequently  appeared  to  me  was  the  attend- 
ant of  *^the  pathetic  room,^*  who,  being  a  faithful  soul,  was  often 
up  to  tend  two  or  three  men,  weak  and  wandering  as  babies, 
after  the  fever  had  gone.  The  amiable  creature  beguiled  the 
watches  of  the  night  by  brewing  jorums  of  a  fearful  beverage 
which  he  called  coffee,  and  insisted  on  sharing  with  me;  coming 
in  with  a  great  bowl  of  something  like  mud  soup,  scalding  hot, 
gfuiltless  of  cream,  rich  in  an  all-pervading  flavor  of  molasses, 
scorch,  and  tin  pot. 

Even  my  constitutionals  in  the  chilly  halls  possessed  a  certain 
charm,  for  the  house  was  never  still.  Sentinels  tramped  round 
it  all  night  long,  their  muskets  glittering  in  the  wintry  moon- 
light as  they  walked,  or  stood  before  the  doors  straight  and 
silent  as  figures  of  stone,  causing  one  to  conjure  up  romantic 
visions  of  guarded  forts,  sudden  surprises,  and  daring  deeds;  for 
in  these  war  times  the  humdrum  life  of  Yankeedom  has  vanished, 
and  the  most  prosaic  feel  some  thrill  of  that  excitement  which 
stirs  the  Nation's  heart,  and  makes  its  capital  a  camp  of  hospi- 
tals. "Wandering  up  and  down  these  lower  halls  I  often  heard 
cries  from  above,  steps  hurrying  to  and  fro,  saw  surgeons  passing 
up,  or  men  coming  down  carrying  a  stretcher,  where  lay  a  long 
white  figure  whose  face  was  shrouded,  and  whose  fight  was  done. 
Sometimes  I  stopped  to  watch  the  passers  in  the  street,  the 
moonlight  shining  on  the  spire  opposite,  or  the  gleam  of  some 
vessel  floating,  like  a  white-winged  sea-gull,  down  the  broad  Po- 
tomac, whose  fullest  flow  can  never  wash  away  the  red  stain  of 
the  land. 


288  LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT 

AMY'S  VALLEY   OF   HUMILIATION 
From   <  Little  Women  > 

"  ^T^HAT  boy  is  a  perfect  Cyclops,  isn't  he  ?  **  said  Amy  one  day, 
I       3.S  Laurie  clattered    by   on    horseback,  with    a  flourish    of 
his  whip  as  he  passed. 

*  How  dare  you  say  so,  when  he's  got  both  his  eyes  ?  and  very 
handsome  ones  they  are,  too,"  cried  Jo,  who  resented  any  slight- 
ing remarks  about  her  friend, 

*I  didn't  say  anything  about  his  eyes;  and  I  don't  see  why 
you  need  fire  up  when  I  admire  his  riding.* 

<*Oh,  my  goodness!  that  little  goose  means  a  centaur,  and  she 
called  him  a  Cyclops,*  exclaimed  Jo,  with  a  burst  of  laughter. 

"You  needn't  be  so  rude;  it's  only  a  4apse  of  lingy,*  as  Mr. 
Davis  says,  *  retorted  Amy,  finishing  Jo  with  her  Latin.  "  I  just 
wish  I  had  a  little  of  the  money  Laurie  spends  on  that  horse,* 
she  added,  as  if  to  herself,  yet  hoping  her  sisters  would  hear. 

"  Why  ?  *  asked  Meg,  kindly,  for  Jo  had  gone  off  in  another 
laugh  at  Amy's  second  blunder. 

<*I  need  it  so  much:  I'm  dreadfully  in  debt,  and  it  won't  be 
my  turn  to  have  the  rag-money  for  a  month.* 

*  In  debt,  Amy :  what  do  you  mean  ?  *  and  Meg  looked  sober. 
*Why,  I  owe  at  least  a  dozen  pickled  limes;  and  I  can't  pay 

them,  you  know,  till  I  have  money,  for  Marmee  forbids  my  hav- 
ing anything  charged  at  the  shop.* 

*  Tell  me  all  about  it.  Are  limes  the  fashion  now  ?  It  used 
to  be  pricking  bits  of  rubber  to  make  balls ;  *  and  Meg  tried  to 
keep  her  countenance.  Amy  looked  so  grave  and  important. 

"Why,  you  see,  the  girls  are  always  buying  them,  and  unless 
you  want  to  be  thought  mean,  you  must  do  it  too.  It's  nothing 
but  limes  now,  for  every  one  is  sucking  them  in  their  desks  in 
school-time,  and  trading  them  off  for  pencils,  bead-rings,  paper 
dolls,  or  something  else,  at  recess.  If  one  girl  likes  another,  she 
gives  her  a  lime;  if  she's  mad  with  her,  she  eats  one  before  her 
face,  and  don't  offer  even  a  suck.  They  treat  by  turns;  and 
I've  had  ever  so  many,  but  haven't  returned  them,  and  I  ought, 
for  they  are  debts  of  honor,  you  know.* 

"  How  much  will  pay  them  off,  and  restore  your  credit  ?  * 
asked  Meg,  taking  out  her  purse. 

"A  quarter  would  more  than  do  it,  and  leave  a  few  cents 
over  for  a  treat  for  you.     Don't  you  like  limes  ?  * 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT 


289 


"Not  much;  you  may  have  my  share.  Here's  the  money: 
make  it  last  as  long  as  you  can,  for  it  isn't  very  plenty,  you 
know. " 

*0h,  thank  you!  it  must  be  so  nice  to  have  pocket-money. 
I'll  have  a  grand  feast,  for  I  haven't  tasted  a  lime  this  week.  I 
felt  delicate  about  taking  any,  as  I  couldn't  return  them,  and' 
I'm  actually  suffering  for  one.* 

Next  day  Amy  was  rather  late  at  school;  but  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  of  displaying,  with  pardonable  pride,  a  moist 
brown-paper  parcel  before  she  consigned  it  to  the  inmost  recesses 
of  her  desk.  During  the  next  few  minutes  the  rumor  that  Amy 
March  had  got  twenty-four  delicious  limes  (she  ate  one  on  the 
way),  and  was  going  to  treat,  circulated  through  her  **set/^  and 
the  attentions  of  her  friends  became  quite  overwhelming.  Katy 
Brown  invited  her  to  her  next  party  on  the  spot;  Mary  Kingsley 
insisted  on  lending  her  her  watch  till  recess;  and  Jenny  Snow, 
a  satirical  young  lady  who  had  basely  twitted  Amy  upon  her 
limeless  state,  promptly  buried  the  hatchet,  and  offered  to  furnish 
answers  to  certain  appalling  sums.  But  Amy  had  not  forgotten 
Miss  Snow's  cutting  remarks  about  "  some  persons  whose  noses 
were  not  too  flat  to  smell  other  people's  limes,  and  stuck-up 
people  who  were  not  too  proud  to  ask  for  them";  and  she 
instantly  crushed  *that  Snow  girl's"  hopes  by  the  withering  tele- 
gram, ^^  You  needn't  be  so  polite  all  of  a  sudden,  for  you  won't 
get  any." 

A  distinguished  personage  happened  to  visit  the  school  that 
morning,  and  Amy's  beautifully  drawn  maps  received  praise; 
which  honor  to  her  foe  rankled  in  the  soul  of  Miss  Snow,  and 
caused  Miss  March  to  assume  the  airs  of  a  studious  young 
peacock.  But,  alas,  alas!  pride  goes  before  a  fall,  and  the 
revengeful  Snow  turned  the  tables  with  disastrous  success.  No 
sooner  had  the  guest  paid  the  usual  stale  compliments,  and  bowed 
himself  out,  than  Jenny,  under  pretence  of  asking  an  important 
question,  informed  Mr.  Davis,  the  teacher,  that  Amy  March  had 
pickled  limes  in  her  desk. 

Now,  Mr.  Davis  had  declared  limes  a  contraband  article,  and 
solemnly  vowed  to  publicly  ferule  the  first  person  who  was  found 
breaking  the  law.  This  much-enduring  man  had  succeeded  in 
banishing  gum  after  a  long  and  stormy  war,  had  made  a  bonfire 
of  the  confiscated  novels  and  newspapers,  had  suppressed  a 
private  post-office,  had  forbidden  distortions  of  the  face,  nick- 
I— 10 


290 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT 


names,  and  caricatures,  and  done  all  that  one  man  could  do  to 
keep  half  a  hundred  rebellious  girls  in  order.  Boys  are  trying 
enough  to  human  patience,  goodness  knows!  but  girls  are 
infinitely  more  so,  especially  to  nervous  gentlemen  with  tyran- 
nical tempers,  and  no  more  talent  for  teaching  than  ^^Dr.  Blim- 
ber.'*  Mr.  Davis  knew  any  quantity  of  Greek,  Latin,  algebra, 
and  ologies  of  all  sorts,  so  he  was  called  a  fine  teacher;  and 
manners,  morals,  feelings,  and  examples  were  not  considered  of 
any  particular  importance.  It  was  a  most  unfortunate  moment 
for  denouncing  Amy,  and  Jenny  knew  it.  Mr.  Davis  had  evi- 
dently taken  his  coffee  too  strong  that  morning;  there  was  an 
east  wind,  which  always  affected  his  neuralgia,  and  his  pupils 
had  not  done  him  the  credit  which  he  felt  he  deserved;  therefore, 
to  use  the  expressive  if  not  elegant  language  of  a  school-girl, 
^^he  was  as  nervous  as  a  witch,  and  as  cross  as  a  bear,*^  The 
word  "limes**  was  like  fire  to  powder:  his  yellow  face  flushed, 
and  he  rapped  on  his  desk  with  an  energy  which  made  Jenny 
skip  to  her  seat  with  unusual  rapidity. 

"  Young  ladies,  attention,  if  you  please !  " 

At  the  stern  order  the  buzz  ceased,  and  fifty  pairs  of  blue, 
black,  gray,  and  brown  eyes  were  obediently  fixed  upon  his 
awful  countenance. 

*Miss  March,  come  to  the  desk.** 

Amy  rose  to  comply  with  outward  composure;  but  a  secret 
fear  oppressed  her,  for  the  limes  weighed  upon  her  conscience. 

"  Bring  with  you  the  limes  you  have  in  your  desk,  **  was  the 
unexpected  command  which  arrested  her  before  she  got  out  of 
her  seat. 

*  Don't  take  all,**  whispered  her  neighbor,  a  young  lady  of 
great  presence  of  mind. 

Amy  hastily  shook  out  half  a  dozen,  and  laid  the  rest  down 
before  Mr.  Davis,  feeling  that  any  man  possessing  a  human  heart 
would  relent  when  that  delicious  perfume  met  his  nose.  Unfor- 
tunately, Mr.  Davis  particularly  detested  the  odor  of  the  fashion- 
able pickle,  and  disgust  added  to  his  wrath. 

« Is  that  all  ?  ** 

"Not  quite,**  stammered  Amy. 

"  Bring  the  rest,  immediately.  ** 

With  a  despairing  glance  at  her  set  she  obeyed. 

"  You  are  sure  there  are  no  more  ?  ** 

"  I  never  lie,  sir.  ** 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT  .  29 1 

*So  I  see.  Now  take  these  disgusting  things,  two  by  two, 
and  throw  them  out  of  the  window.** 

There  was  a  simultaneous  sigh,  which  created  quite  a  little 
gust  as  the  last  hope  fled,  and  the  treat  was  ravished  from  their 
longing  lips.  Scarlet  with  shame  and  anger,  Amy  went  to  and 
fro  twelve  mortal  times;  and  as  each  doomed  couple,  looking,  oh, 
so  plump  and  juicy!  fell  from  her  reluctant  hands,  a  shout  from 
the  street  completed  the  anguish  of  the  girls,  for  it  told  them 
that  their  feast  was  being  exulted  over  by  the  little  Irish  chil- 
dren, who  were  their  sworn  foes.  This — this  was  too  much;  all 
flashed  indignant  or  appealing  glances  at  the  inexorable  Davis, 
and  one  passionate  lime-lover  burst  into  tears. 

As  Amy  returned  from  her  last  trip,  Mr.  Davis  gave  a  por- 
tentous "hem,*  and  said,  in  his  most  impressive  manner:  — 

"Young  ladies,  you  remember  what  I  said  to  you  a  week 
ago.  I  am  sorry  this  has  happened;  but  I  never  allow  my  rules 
to  be  infringed,  and  I  fiever  break  my  word.  Miss  March,  hold 
out  your  hand.** 

Amy  started,  and  put  both  hanc^s  behind  her,  turning  on  him 
an  imploring  look,  which  pleaded  for  her  better  than  the  words 
she  could  not  utter.  She  was  rather  a  favorite  with  "old  Davis," 
as  of  course  he  was  called,  and  it's  my  private  belief  that  he 
would  have  broken  his  word  if  the  indignation  of  one  irrepressible 
young  lady  had  not  found  vent  in  a  hiss.  That  hiss,  faint  as  it 
was,  irritated  the  irascible  gentleman,  and  sealed  the  culprit's  fate. 

"  Your  hand.  Miss  March !  **  was  the  only  answer  her  mute 
appeal  received;  and,  too  proud  to  cry  or  beseech.  Amy  set  her 
teeth,  threw  back  her  head  defiantly,  and  bore  without  flinching 
several  tingling  blows  on  her  little  palm.  They  were  neither 
many  nor  heavy,  but  that  made  no  difference  to  her.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  had  been  struck;  and  the  disgrace,  in 
her  eyes,  was  as  deep  as  if  he  had  knocked  her  down. 

"You  will  now  stand  on  the  platform  till  recess,**  said  Mr. 
Davis,  resolved  to  do  the  thing  thoroughly,  since   he  had  begun. 

That  was  dreadful.  It  would  have  been  bad  enough  to  go  to 
her  seat  and  see  the  pitying  faces  of  her  friends,  or  the  satisfied 
one?,  of  her  few  enemies;  but  to  face  the  whole  school  with  that 
shame  fresh  upon  her  seemed  impossible,  and  for  a  second  she 
felt  as  if  she  could  only  drop  down  where  she  stood,  and  break 
her  heart  with  crying.  A  bitter  sense  of  wrong,  and  the  thought 
of  Jenny  Snow,  helped  her  to  bear  it;  and  taking  the  ignominious 


292 


LOUISA   MAY  ALCOTT 


place,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  stove-funnel  above  what  now 
seemed  a  sea  of  faces,  and  stood  there  so  motionless  and  white, 
that  the  girls  found  it  very  hard  to  study,  with  that  pathetic 
little  figure  before  them. 

During  the  fifteen  minutes  that  followed,  the  proud  and  sensi- 
tive little  girl  suffered  a  shame  and  pain  which  she  never  forgot. 
To  others  it  might  seem  a  ludicrous  or  trivial  affair,  but  to  her 
it  was  a  hard  experience;  for  during  the  twelve  years  of  her  life 
she  had  been  governed  by  love  alone,  and  a  blow  of  that  sort 
had  never  touched  her  before.  The  smart  of  her  hand,  and  the 
ache  of  her  heart,  were  forgotten  in  the  sting  of  the  thought, — 
^*  I  shall  have  to  tell  at  home,  and  they  will  be  so  disappointed 
in  me  I  *' 

The  fifteen  minutes  seemed  an  hour;  but  they  came  to  an  end 
•  at  last,  and  the  word  "  Recess  I "  had  never  seemed  so  welcome  to 
her  before. 

"You  can  go.  Miss  March,**  said  Mr.  Davis,  looking,  as  he 
felt,  uncomfortable. 

He  did  not  soon  forget  the  reproachful  look  Amy  gave  him,  as 
she  went,  without  a  word  to  any  one,  straight  into  the  ante-room, 
snatched  her  things,  and  left  the  place  "  forever, "  as  she  passion- 
ately declared  to  herself.  She  was  in  a  sad  state  when  she  got 
home;  and  when  the  older  girls  arrived,  some  time  later,  an  in- 
dignation meeting  was  held  at  once.  Mrs.  March  did  not  say 
much,  but  looked  disturbed,  and  comforted  her  aflflicted  little 
daughter  in  her  tenderest  manner.  Meg  bathed  the  insulted 
hand  with  glycerine,  and  tears;  Beth  felt  that  even  her  beloved 
kittens  would  fail  as  a  balm  for  griefs  like  this,  and  Jo  wrath- 
fully  proposed  that  Mr.  Davis  be  arrested  without  delay;  while 
Hannah  shook  her  fist  at  the  "villain,'*  and  pounded  potatoes  for 
dinner  as  if  she  had  him  under  her  pestle. 

No  notice  was  taken  of  Amy's  flight,  except  by  her  mates; 
but  the  sharp-eyed  demoiselles  discovered  that  Mr.  Davis  was 
quite  benignant  in  the  afternoon,  and  also  unusually  nervous. 
Just  before  school  closed  Jo  appeared,  wearing  a  grim  expression 
as  she  stalked  up  to  the  desk  and  delivered  a  letter  from  her 
mother;  then  collected  Amy's  property  and  departed,  carefully 
scraping  the  mud  from  her  boots  on  the  door-mat,  as  if  she 
shook  the  dust  of  the  place  off  her  feet. 

"  Yes,  you  can  have  a  vacation  from  school,  but  I  want  you 
to   study   a  little   every  day   with   Beth.**   said    Mrs.    March   that 


LOUISA   MAY  ALCOTT 


293 


evening.  **  I  don't  approve  ot  corporal  punishment,  especially  for 
gfirls.  I  dislike  Mr.  Davis's  manner  of  teaching,  and  don't  think 
the  girls  you  associate  with  are  doing  you  any  good,  so  I  shall 
ask  your  father's  advice  before  I  send  you  anywhere  else.* 

** That's  good!  I  wish  all  the  girls  would  leave,  and  spoil  his 
old  school.  It's  perfectly  maddening  to  think  of  those  lovely 
limes,*  sighed  Amy  with  the  air  of  a  martyr. 

*^  I  am  not  sorry  you  lost  them,  for  you  broke  the  rules,  and 
deserved  some  punishment  for  disobedience,*  was  the  severe 
reply,  which  rather  disappointed  the  young  lady,  who  expected 
nothing  but  sympathy. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  are  glad  I  was  disgraced  before  the  whole 
school  ?  *  cried  Amy. 

"  I  should  not  have  chosen  that  way  of  mending  a  fault,  * 
replied  her  mother;  "but  I'm  not  sure  that  it  won't  do  you  more 
good  than  a  milder  method.  You  are  getting  to  be  altogether 
too  conceited  and  important,  my  dear,  and  it  is  about  time  you 
set  about  correcting  it.  You  have  a  good  many  little  gifts  and 
virtues,  but  there  is  no  need  of  parading  them,  for  conceit  spoils 
the  finest  genius.  There  is  not  much  danger  that  real  talent  or 
goodness  will  be  overlooked  long;  even  if  it  is,  the  consciousness 
of  possessing  and  using  it  well  should  satisfy  one,  and  the  great 
charm  of  all  power  is  modesty.* 

"So  it  is,*  cried  Laurie,  who  was  playing  chess  in  a  comer 
with  Jo.  "I  knew  a  girl  once  who  had  a  really  remarkable 
talent  for  music,  and  she  didn't  know  it;  never  guessed  what 
sweet'  little  things  she  composed  when  she  was  alone,  and 
wouldn't  have  believed  it  if  any  one  had  told  her.* 

"I  wish  I'd  known  that  nice  girl;  maybe  she  would  have 
helped  me,  I'm  so  stupid,*  said  Beth,  who  stood  beside  him 
listening  eagerly. 

"You  do  know  her,  and  she  helps  you  better  than  any  one 
else  could,*  answered  Laurie,  looking  at  her  with  such  mis- 
chievous meaning  in  his  merry  eyes,  that  Beth  suddenly  turned 
very  red,  and  hid  her  face  in  the  sofa-cushion,  quite  overcome  by 
such  an  unexpected  discovery. 

Jo  let  Laurie  win  the  game,  to  pay  for  that  praise  of  her 
Beth,  who  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  play  for  them  after 
her  compliment.  So  Laurie  did  his  best  and  sung  delightfully, 
being  in  a  particularly  lively  humor,  for  to  the  Marches  he 
seldom  showed   the  moody  side  of  his  character.     When   he  was 


294  LOUISA   MAY   ALCOTT 

gone,  Amy,  who  had  been  pensive  all  the  evening,  said  suddenly, 
as  if  busy  over  some  new  idea :  — 

**  Is  Laurie  an  accomplished  boy  ?  ** 

**Yes;  he  has  had  an  excellent  education,  and  has  much  talent; 
he  will  make  a  fine  man,  if  not  spoilt  by  petting,'*  replied  her 
mother. 

*^  And  he  isn't  conceited,  is  he  ?  '*  asked  Amy. 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  that  is  why  he  is  so  charming,  and  we  all 
like  him  so  much.'* 

*^  I  see :  it's  nice  to  have  accomplishments,  and  be  elegant,  but 
not  to  show  off,  or  get  perked  up,"  said  Amy  thoughtfully. 

*^  These  things  are  always  seen  and  felt  in  a  person's  manner 
and  conversation,  if  modestly  used;  but  it  is  not  necessary  to 
display  them,'*  said  Mrs.   March. 

*^  Any  more  than  it's  proper  to  wear  all  your  bonnets,  and 
gowns  and  ribbons,  at  once,  that  folks  may  know  you've  got 
'em,**  added  Jo;  and  the  lecture  ended  in  a  laugh. 


THOREAU'S   FLUTE 
From  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  September,  1863 

WE,  SIGHING,  said,  "Our  Pan  is  dead; 
His  pipe  hangs  mute  beside  the  river; 
Around  it  wistful  sunbeams  quiver, 
But  Mvtsic's  airy  voice  is  fled. 
Spring  mourns  as  for  untimely  frost; 
The  bluebird  chants  a  requiem; 
The  willow-blossom  waits  for  him;  — 
The  Genius  of  the  wood  is  lost.** 

Then  from  the  flute,  untouched  by  hands. 
There  came  a  low,  harmonious  breath: 
<<  For  such  as  he  there  is  no  death ; 

His  life  the  eternal  life  commands; 

Above  man's  aims  his  nature  rose : 
The  wisdom  of  a  just  content 
Made  one  small  spot  a  continent, 

And  turned  to  poetry  Life's  prose. 

<^  Haunting  the  hills,  the  stream,  the  wild, 
Swallow  and  aster,  lake  and  pine. 
To  him  grew  human  or  divine, — 

Fit  mates  for  this  large-hearted  child. 


LOUISA  MAY  ALCOTT  295 

Such  homage  Nature  ne'er  forgets, 

And  yearly  on  the  coverlid 

'Neath  which  her  darling  lieth  hid 
Will  write  his  name  in  violets. 

<*To  him  no  vain  .egrets  belong, 

Whose  soul,  that  finer  instrument. 

Gave  to  the  world  no  poor  lament. 
But  wood-notes  ever  sweet  and  strong. 
O  lonely  friend!  he  still  will  be 

A  potent  presence,  though  unseen, — 

Steadfast,  sagacious,  and  serene: 
Seek  not  for  him, — he  is  with  thee.* 


A  SONG   FROM   THE   SUDS 
From  <  Little  Women  > 

QUEEN  of  my  tub,  I  merrily  sing, 
While  the  white  foam  rises  high; 
And  sturdily  wash,  and  rinse,  and  wring. 
And  fasten  the  clothes  to  dry; 
Then  out  in  the  free  fresh  air  they  swing. 
Under  the  sunny  sky. 

I  wish  we  could  wash  from  our  hearts  and  souls 

The  stains  of  the  week  away, 
And  let  water  and  air  by  their  magic  make 

Ourselves  as  pure  as  they; 
Then  on  the  earth  there  would  be  indeed 

A  glorious  washing-day! 

Along  the  path  of  a  useful  life. 

Will  heart's-ease  ever  bloom; 
The  busy  mind  has  no  time  to  think 

Of  sorrow,  or  care,  or  gloom; 
And  anxious  thoughts  may  be  swept  away. 

As  we  busily  wield  a  broom. 

I  am  glad  a  task  to  me  is  given. 

To  labor  at  day  by  day ; 
For  it  brings  me  health,  and  strength,  and  hope. 

And  I  cheerfully  learn  to  say, — 
**Head  you  may  think,  Heart  you  may  feel, 

But  Hand  you  shall  work  alway!*^ 

Selections  used  by  permission  of  Roberts  Brothers,  Publishers,  and  John  S.  P. 

Alcott 


296 

ALCUIN 

(735?-8o4) 
BY  WILLIAM   H.  CARPENTER 

Jlcuin,  usually  called  Alcuin  of  York,  came  of  a  patrician 
family  of  Northumberland.  Neither  the  date  nor  the  place 
of  his  birth  is  known  with  definiteness,  but  he  was  born 
about  735  at  or  near  York.  As  a  child  he  entered  the  cathedral 
school  recently  founded  by  Egbert,  Archbishop  of  York,  and  ulti- 
mately became  its  most  eminent  pupil.  He  was  subsequently  as- 
sistant master  to  Albert,  its  head;  and  when  ^Elbert  succeeded  to 
the  archbishopric  on  the  death  of  Egbert  in  766,  Alcuin  became 
scholasticus  or  master  of  the  school.  On  the  death  of  ^Elbert  in  780, 
Alcuin  was  placed  in  charge  of  the  cathedral  library,  the  most 
famous  in  Western  Europe.  In  his  longest  poem,  <  Versus  de 
Eboracensi  Ecclesia'  (Poem  on  the  Saints  of  the  Church  at  York), 
he  has  left  an  important  record  of  his  connection  with  York.  This 
poem,  written  before  he  left  England,  is,  like  most  of  his  verse,  in 
dactylic  hexameters.  To  a  certain  extent  it  follows  Virgil  as  a 
model,  and  is  partly  based  on  the  writings  of  Bede,  partly  on  his 
own  personal  experience.  It  is  not  only  valuable  for  its  historical 
bearings,  but  for  its  disclosure  of  the  manner  and  matter  of  instruc- 
tion in  the  schools  of  the  time,  and  the  contents  of  the  great  library. 
As  master  of  the  cathedral  school,  Alcuin  acquired  name  and  fame 
at  home  and  abroad,  and  was  soon  the  most  celebrated  teacher  in 
Britain.  Before  ^66,  in  company  with  Albert,  he  made  his  first 
journey  to  Germany,  and  may  have  visited  Rome.  Earlier  than  780 
he  was  again  abroad,  and  at  Pavia  came  under  the  notice  of 
Charlemagne,  who  was  on  his  way  back  from  Italy.  In  781  Eanbald, 
the  new  Archbishop  of  York,  sent  Alcuin  to  Rome  to  bring  back  the 
Archbishop's  pallium.  At  Parma  he  again  met  Charlemagne,  who 
invited  him  to  take  up  his  abode  at  the  Prankish  court.  With  the 
consent  of  his  king  and  his  archbishop  he  resigned  his  position  at 
York,  and  with  a  few  pupils  departed  for  the  court  at  Aachen,  in  782. 

Alcuin's  arrival  in  Germany  was  the  beginning  of  "a  new  intel- 
lectual epoch  among  the  Franks.  Learning  was  at  this  time  in  a 
deplorable  state.  The  older  monastic  and  cathedral  schools  had 
been  broken  up,  and  the  monasteries  themselves  often  unworthily 
bestowed  upon  royal  favorites.  There  had  been  a  palace  school  for 
rudimentary  instruction,  but  it  was  wholly  inefficient  and  unimportant. 

During  the  years  immediately  following  his  arrival,  Alcuin  zeal- 
ously labored  at  his  projects  of  educational  reform.     First  reorganizing 


ALCUIN 


297 


the  palace  school,  he  afterward  undertook  a  reform  of  the  monasteries 
and  their  system  of  instruction,  and  the  establishment  of  new  schools 
throughout  the  kingdom  of  Charlemagne.  At  the  court  school  the 
great  king  himself,  as  well  as  Liutgard  the  queen,  became  his 
pupil.  Gisela,  Abbess  of  Chelles,  the  sister  of  Charlemagne,  came 
also  to  him  for  instruction,  as  did  the  Princes  Charles,  Pepin,  and 
Louis,  and  the  Princesses  Rotmd  and  Gisela.  On  himself  and  the 
others,  in  accordance  with  the  fashion  of  the  time,  Alcuin  bestowed 
fanciful  names.  He  was  Flaccus  or  Albinus,  Charlemagne  was 
David,  the  queen  was  Ava,  and  Pepin  was  Julius.  The  subjects  of 
instruction  in  this  school,  the  centre  of  culture  of  the  kingdom,  were 
first  of  all,  grammar;  then  arithmetic,  astronomy,  rhetoric,  and 
dialectic.  The  king  himself  studied  poetry,  astronomy,  arithmetic, 
the  writings  of  the  Fathers,  and  theology  proper.  It  was  under  the 
influence  of  Alcuin  that  Charlemagne  issued  in  787  the  capitulary 
that  has  been  called  "the  first  general  charter  of  education  for  the 
Middle  Ages."  It  reproves  the  abbots  for  their  illiteracy,  and  exhorts 
them  to  the  study  of  letters;  and  although  its  effect  was  less  than 
its  purpose,  it  served,  with  subsequent  decrees  of  the  king,  to  stimu- 
late learning  and  literature  throughout  all  Germany. 

Alcuin's  system  included,  besides  the  palace  school,  and  the 
monastic  and  cathedral  schools,  which  in  some  instances  gave  both 
elementary  and  superior  instruction,  all  the  parish  or  village  ele- 
mentary schools,  whose  head  was  the  parish  priest. 

In  790,  seeing  his  plans  well  established,  Alcuin  returned  to  York 
bearing  letters  of  reconciliation  to  Offa,  King  of  Mercia,  between 
whom  and  Charlemagne  dissension  had  arisen.  Having  accomplished 
his  errand,  he  went  back  to  the  German  court  in  792.  Here  his  first 
act  was  to  take  a  vigorous  part  in  the  furious  controversy  respect- 
ing the  doctrine  of  Adoptionism.  Alcuin  not  only  wrote  against 
the  heresy,  but  brought  about  its  condemnation  by  the  Council  of 
Frankfort,  in  794. 

Two  years  later,  at  his  own  request,  he  was  made  Abbot  of  the 
Benedictine  monastery  of  St.  Martin,  at  Tours.  Not  contented  with 
reforming  the  lax  monastic  life,  he  resolved  to  make  Tours  a  seat  of 
learning.  Under  his  management,  it  presently  became  the  most 
renowned  school  in  the  kingdom.  Especially  in  the  copying  of  man- 
uscripts did  the  brethren  excel.  Alcuin  kept  up  a  vast  correspond- 
ence with  Britain  as  well  as  with  different  parts  of  the  Frankish 
kingdom;  and  of  the  two  hundred  and  thirty  letters  preserved,  the 
greater  part  belonged  to  this  time.  In  799,  at  Aachen,  he  held  a 
public  disputation  on  Adoptionism  with  Felix,  Bishop  of  Urge!,  who 
was  wholly  vanquished.  When  the  king,  in  800,  was  preparing  for 
that  visit  to  the  Papal  court  which  was  to  end  with  his  coronation  as 


298  ALCUIN 

Emperor  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire,  he  invited  Alcuin  to  accompany 
him.  But  the  old  man,  wearied  with  many  burdens,  could  not  make 
the  journey.  By  the  beginning  of  804  he  had  become  much  enfeebled. 
It  was  his  desire,  often  expressed,  to  die  on  the  day  of  Pentecost. 
His  wish  was  fulfilled,  for  he  died  at  dawn  on  the  19th  of  May.  He 
was  buried  in  the  Cloister  Church  of  St.  Martin,  near  the  monastery. 
Alcuin's  literary  activity  was  exerted  in  various  directions.  Two- 
thirds  of  all  that  he  wrote  was  theological  in  character.  These  works 
are  exegetical,  like  the  *■  Commentary  on  the  Gospel  of  St.  John  > ; 
dogmatic,  like  the  <  Writings  against  Felix  of  Urgel  and  Elipandus 
of  Toledo,^  his  best  work  of  this  class;  or  liturgical  and  moral,  like 
the  < Lives  of  the  Saints.*  The  other  third  is  made  up  of  the  epis- 
tles, already  mentioned;  of  poems  on  a  great  variety  of  subjects,  the 
principal  one  being  the  ^Poem  on  the  Saints  of  the  Church  at  York>; 
and  of  those  didactic  works  which  form  his  principal  claim  to  atten- 
tion at  the  present  day.  His  educational  treatises  are  the  following: 
*  On  Grammar,  >  *■  On  Orthography,  >  <  On  Rhetoric  and  the  Virtues,  > 
<0n  Dialectics,*  < Disputation  between  the  Royal  and  Most  Noble 
Youth  Pepin,  and  Albinus  the  Scholastic,*  and  <  On  the  Calculation 
of  Easter.  *  The  most  important  of  all  these  writings  is  his  <  Gram- 
mar,* which  consists  of  two  parts:  the  first  a  dialogue  between  a 
teacher  and  his  pupils  on  philosophy  and  studies  in  general;  the 
other  a  dialogue  between  a  teacher,  a  young  Frank,  and  a  young 
Saxon,  on  grammar.  These  latter,  in  Alcuin's  language,  have  "but 
lately  rushed  upon  the  thorny  thickets  of  grammatical  density.** 
Grammar  begins  with  the  consideration  of  the  letters,  the  vowels 
and  consonants,  the  former  of  which  <<are,  as  it  were,  the  souls,  and 
the  consonants  the  bodies  of  words.**  Grammar  itself  is  defined 
to  be  <Uhe  science  of  written  sounds,  the  guardian  of  correct  speak- 
ing and  writing.  It  is  founded  on  nature,  reason,  authority,  and 
custom.**  He  enumerates  no  less  than  twenty-six  parts  of  grammar, 
which  he  then  defines.  Many  of  his  definitions  and  particularly  his 
etymologies,  are  remarkable.  He  tells  us  that  feet  in  poetry  are  so 
called  "because  the  metres  walk  on  them**;  littera  is  derived  from 
legitera,  "since  the  littera  serve  to  prepare  the  way  for  readers" 
{legere,  iter).  In  his  *  Orthography,*  a  pendant  to  the  <  Grammar,* 
coelebs,  a  bachelor,  is  "one  who  is  on  his  way  ad coeluni^^  (to  heaven). 
Alcuin's  < Grammar*  is  based  principally  on  Donatus.  In  this,  as  in 
all  his  works,  he  compiles  and  adapts,  but  is  only  rarely  original. 
<On  Rhetoric  and  the  Virtues*  is  a  dialogue  between  Charlemagne 
and  Albinus  (Alcuin).  The  < Disputation  between  Pepin  and  Albi- 
nus,* the  beginning  of  which  is  here  given,  shows  both  the  manner 
and  the  subject-matter  of  his  instruction.  Alcuin,  with  all  the  lim- 
itations which  his  environment  imposed  upon  him,  stamped  himself 


ALCUIN  „„„ 

299 

indelibly  upon  his  day  and  generation,  and  left  behind  him,  in  his 
scholars,  an  enduring  influence.  Men  like  Rabanus,  the  famous 
Bishop  of  Mayence,  gloried  in  having  been  his  pupils,  and  down  to 
the  wars  and  devastations  of  the  tenth  century  his  influence  upon 
education  was  paramount  throughout  all  Western  Europe.  There  is 
an  excellent  account  of  Alcuin  in  Professor  West's  *Alcuin*  (<  Great 
Educators*  Series),  published  in  1893. 


'l^;:^4'l-'€^t^<C. 


ON  THE  SAINTS   OF  THE  CHURCH  AT   YORK 

THERE  the  Eboric  scholars  felt  the  rule 
Of  Master  Albert,  teaching  in  the  school. 
Their  thirsty  hearts  to  gladden  well  he  knew 
With  doctrine's  stream  and  learning's  heavenly  dew. 

To  some  he  made  the  grammar  understood. 
And  poured  on  others  rhetoric's  copious  flood. 
The  rules  of  jurisprudence  these  rehearse. 
While  those  recite  in  high  Eonian  verse. 
Or  play  Castalia's  flutes  in  cadence  sweet 
And  mount  Parnassus  on  swift  lyric  feet. 

Anon  the  master  turns  their  gaze  on  high 
To  view  the  travailing  sun  and  moon,  the  sky 
In  order  turning  with  its  planets  seven. 
And  starry  hosts  that  keep  the  law  of  heaven. 

The  storms  at  sea,  the  earthquake's  shock,  the  race 
Of  men  and  beasts  and  flying  fowl  they  trace; 
Or  to  the  laws  of  numbers  bend  their  mind, 
And  search  till  Easter's  annual  day  they  find. 

Then,  last  and  best,  he  opened  up  to  view 

The  depths  of  Holy  Scripture,  Old  and  New. 

Was  any  youth  in  studies  well  approved. 

Then  him  the  master  cherished,  taught,  and  loved; 

And  thus  the  double  knowledge  he  conferred 

Of  liberal  studies  and  the  Holy  Word. 

l?Yom  West's  *  Alcuin,  and  the  Rise  of  the  Christian  Schools  >:  by  permission  of 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


300 


ALCUIN 


DISPUTATION  BETWEEN  PEPIN,  THE  MOST  NOBLE  AND  ROYAl 
YOUTH,  AND  ALBINUS  THE   SCHOLASTIC 

PEPIN  —  What  is  writing? 
Albinus — The  treasury  of  history. 
Pepin  —  What  is  language? 

Albinus — The  herald  of  the  soul. 

Pepin  —  What  generates  language? 

Albinus — The  tongfue. 

Pepin  —  What  is  the  tongue? 

Albinus  —  A  whip  of  the  air. 

Pepin  —  What  is  the  air  ? 

Albinus  —  A  maintainer  of  life. 

Pepin  —  What  is  life  ? 

Albinus — The  joy  of  the  happy;  the  torment  of  the  suffering; 
a  waiting  for  death. 

Pepin  —  What  is  death  ? 

Albinus — An  inevitable  ending,  a  journey  into  uncertainty;  a 
source  of  tears  for  the  living;  the  probation  of  wills;  a  waylayei 
of  men. 

Pepin  —  What  is  man  ? 

Albinus — A  booty  of  death;  a  passing  traveler;  a  stranger  on 
earth. 

Pepin  —  What  is  man  like  ? 

Albinus — The  fruit  of  a  tree. 

Pepin  —  What  are  the  heavens  ? 

Albinus  —  A  rolling  ball;   an  immeasurable  vault. 

Pepin  —  What  is  light  ? 

Albinus  —  The  sight  of  all  things. 

Pepin  —  What  is  day? 

Albinus — The  admonisher  to  labor. 

Pepin  —  What  is  the  sun? 

Albinus — The  glory  and  splendor  of  the  heavens;  the  attract- 
ive in  nature;   the  measure  of  hours;   the  adornment  of  day. 

Pepin  —  What  is  the  moon  ? 

Albinus  —  The  eye  of  night;  the  dispenser  of  dew;  the  pre- 
sager  of  storms. 

Pepin  —  What  are  the  stars? 

Albinus  —  A  picture  on  the  vault  of  heaven;  the  steersmen  of 
ships;   the  ornament  of  night. 


ALCUIN 


301 


Pepin  —  What  is  rain? 

Albinus — The  fertilizer  of  the  earth;    the  producer  of  crops. 

Pepin — What  is  fog? 

Albinus — Night  in  day;   the  annoyance  of  eyes. 

Pepin  —  What  is  wind? 

Albinus — The  mover  of  air;  the  agitation  of  water;  the  dryei 
of  the  earth. 

Pepin  —  What  is  the  earth? 

Albinus — The  mother  of  growth;  the  nourisher  of  the  living; 
the  storehouse  of  life;   the  effacer  of  all. 

Pepin  —  What  is  the  sea? 

Albinus  —  The  path  of  adventure;  the  bounds  of  the  earth; 
the  division  of  lands;  the  harbor  of  rivers;  the  source  of  rains; 
a  refuge  in  danger;   a  pleasure  in  enjoyment. 

Pepin  —  What  are  rivers? 

Albinus — A  ceaseless  motion;  a  refreshment  to  the  sun;  the 
waters  of  the  earth. 

Pepin  —  What  is  water  ? 

Albinus — The  supporter  of  life;  the  cleanser  of  filth. 

Pepin — What  is  fire  ? 

Albinus  —  An  excessive  heat;  the  nurse  of  growing  things;  the 
ripener  of  crops. 

Pepin  —  What  is  cold? 

Albinus  —  The  trembling  of  our  members. 

Pepin — What  is  frost? 

Albinus  —  An  assailer  of  plants;  the  destruction  of  leaves;  a 
fetter  to  the  earth;  a  bridger  of  streams. 

Pepin  —  What  is  snow? 

Albinus — Dry  water. 

Pepin  —  What  is  winter? 

Albinus — An  exile  of  summer. 

Pepin  —  What  is  spring? 

Albinus — A  painter  of  the  earth 

Pepin  —  What  is  summer  ? 

Albinus — That  which  brings  to  the  earth  a  new  garment,  and 
ripens  the  fruit. 

Pepin — What  is  autumn? 

Albinus — The  bam  of  the  year. 


302  '  ALCUIN 

A  LETTER  FROM  ALCUIN  TO   CHARLEMAGNE 
("Written  in  the  year  796) 


ff  YOUR  Flaccus,  in  accordance  with  your  entreaty  and  your 
1  gracious  kindness,  am  busied  under  the  shelter  of  St.  Mar- 
tin's, in  bestowing  upon  many  of  my  pupils  the  honey  of 
the  Holy  Scriptures.  I  am  eager  that  others  should  drink  deep 
of  the  old  wine  of  ancient  learning;  I  shall  presently  begin  to 
nourish  still  others  with  the  fruits  of  grammatical  ingenuity;  and 
some  of  them  I  am  eager  to  enlighten  with  a  knowledge  of  the 
order  of  the  stars,  that  seem  painted,  as  it  were,  on  the  dome 
of  some  mighty  palace.  I  have  become  all  things  to  all  men 
(i  Cor.  i.  22)  so  that  I  may  train  up  many  to  the  profession  of 
God's  Holy  Church  and  to  the  glory  of  your  imperial  realm,  lest 
the  grace  of  Almighty  God  in  me  should  be  fruitless  (i  Cor.  xv. 
10)  and  your  munificent  bounty  of  no  avail.  But  your  servant 
lacks  the  rarer  books  of  scholastic  learning,  which  in  my  own 
country  I  used  to  have  (thanks  to  the  generous  and  most  devoted 
care  of  my  teacher  and  to  my  own  humble  endeavors),  and  I 
mention  it  to  your  Majesty  so  that,  perchance,  it  may  please  you 
who  are  eagerly  concerned  about  the  whole  body  of  learning,  to 
have  me  dispatch  some  of  our  young  men  to  procure  for  us  cer- 
tain necessary  works,  and  bring  with  them  to  France  the  flowers 
of  England;  so  that  a  graceful  garden  may  not  exist  in  York 
alone,  but  so  that  at  Tours  as  well  there  may  be  found  the  blos- 
soming of  Paradise  with  its  abundant  fruits;  that  the  south  wind, 
when  it  comes,  may  cause  the  gardens  along  the  River  Loire  to 
burst  into  bloom,  and  their  perfumed  airs  to  stream  forth,  and 
finally,  that  which  follows  in  the  Canticle,  whence  I  have  drawn 
this  simile,  may  be  brought  to  pass.  .  .  .  (Canticle  v.  i,  2). 
Or  even  this  exhortation  of  the  prophet  Isaiah,  which  urges  us  to 
acquire  wisdom:  —  <<A11  ye  who  thirst,  come  to  the  waters;  and 
you  who  have  not  money,  hasten,  buy  and  eat:  come,  without 
money  and  without  price,  and  buy  wine  and  milk*^  (Isaiah  iv.  i.) 
And  this  is  a  thing  which  your  gracious  zeal  will  not  over- 
look: how  upon  every  page  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  we  are  urged 
to  the  acquisition  of  wisdom;  how  nothing  is  more  honorable  for 
insuring  a  happy  life,  nothing  more  pleasing  in  the  observance, 
nothing  more  efficient  against  sin,  nothing  more  praiseworthy  in 
any  lofty  station,  than  that  men  live  according  to  the  teachings  of 


ALCUm 


303 


the  philosophers.  Moreover,  nothing  is  more  essential  to  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  people,  nothing  better  for  the  guidance  of  life 
into  the  paths  of  honorable  character,  than  the  grace  which  wis- 
dom gives,  and  the  glory  of  training  and  the  power  of  learning 
Therefore  it  is  that  in  its  praise,  Solomon,  the  wisest  of  all  men, 
exclaims,  ^^  Better  is  wisdom  than  all  precious  things,  and  more 
to  be  desired**  (Prov.  viii.  11  seq).  To  secure  this  with  every  pos- 
sible effort  and  to  get  possession  of  it  by  daily  endeavor,  do  you, 
my  lord  King,  exhort  the  young  men  who  are  in  your  Majesty's 
palace,  that  they  strive  for  this  in  the  flower  of  their  youth,  so 
that  they  may  be  deemed  worthy  to  live  through  an  old  age  of 
honor,  and  that  by  its  means  they  may  be  able  to  attain  to  ever- 
lasting happiness.  I,  myself,  according  to  my  disposition,  shall 
not  be  slothful  in  sowing  the  seeds  of  wisdom  among  your  serv- 
ants in  this  land,  being  mindful  of  the  injunction,  *Sow  thy 
seed  in  the  morning,  and  at  eventide  let  not  thy  hand  cease; 
since  thou  knowest  not  what  will  spring  up,  whether  these  or 
those,  and  if  both  together,  still  better  is  it*  (Eccles.  xi.  6).  In 
the  morning  of  my  life  and  in  the  fruitful  period  of  my  studies  I 
sowed  seed  in  Britain,  and  now  that  my  blood  has  grown  cool  in 
the  evening  of  life,  I  still  cease  not;  but  sow  the  seed  in  France, 
desiring  that  both  may  spring  up  by  the  grace  of  God.  And  now 
that  my  body  has  grown  weak,  I  find  consolation  in  the  saying  of 
St.  Jerome,  who  declares  in  his  letter  to  Nepotianus,  *  Almost  all 
the  powers  of  the  body  are  altered  in  old  men,  and  wisdom  alone 
will  increase  while  the  rest  decay.*  And  a  little  further  he  says, 
*The  old  age  of  those  who  have  adorned  their  youth  with  noble 
accomplishments  and  have  meditated  on  the  law  of  the  Lo^-d  both 
day  and  night  becomes  more  and  more  deeply  accomplished  with 
its  years,  more  polished  from  experience,  more  wise  by  the  lapse 
of  time;  and  it  reaps  the  sweetest  fruit  of  ancient  learning.*  In 
this  letter  in  praise  of  wisdom,  one  who  wishes  can  read  many 
things  of  the  scientific  pursuits  of  the  ancients,  and  can  under- 
stand how  eager  were  these  ancients  to  abound  in  the  grace  of 
wisdom.  I  have  noted  that  your  zeal,  which  is  pleasing  to  God 
and  praiseworthy,  is  always  advancing  toward  this  wisdom  and 
takes  pleasure  in  it,  and  that  you  are  adorning  the  magnificence 
of  your  worldly  rule  with  still  greater  intellectual  splendor.  In 
this  may  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  who  is  himself  the  supreme  type 
of  divine  wisdom,  guard  you  and  exalt  you,  and  cause  you  tc 
attain  to  the  glory  of  His  own  blessed  and  everlasting  vision. 


304 

HENRY  M.  ALDEN 

(1836-) 

(enry  Mills  Alden,  since  1864  the  editor  of  Harper's  Maga- 
zine, was  born  in  Mount  Tabor,  Vermont,  November  nth 
1836,  the  eighth  in  descent  from  Captain  John  Alden,  the 
Pilgrim.  He  graduated  at  Williams  College,  and  studied  theology 
at  Andover  Seminary,  but  was  never  ordained  a  minister,  having 
almost  immediately  turned  his  attention  to  literature.  His  first  work 
that  attracted  attention  was  an  essay  on  the  Eleusinian  Mysteries, 
published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  The  scholarship  and  subtle 
method  revealed  in  this  and  similar  works  led  to  his  engagement  to 
deliver  a  course  of  twelve  Lowell  Institute  lectures  at  Boston,  in 
1863  and  1864,  and  he  took  for  his  subject  <  The  Structure  of  Pagan- 
ism.* Before  this  he  had  removed  to  New  York,  had  engaged  in 
general  editorial  work,  and  formed  his  lasting  connection  with  the 
house  of  Harper  and  Brothers. 

As  an  editor  Mr.  Alden  is  the  most  practical  of  men,  but  he  is  in 
reality  a  poet,  and  in  another  age  he  might  have  been  a  mystic. 
He  has  the  secret  of  preserving  his  life  to  himself,  while  paying  the 
keenest  attention  to  his  daily  duties.  In  his  office  he  is  immersed  in 
affairs  which  require  the  exercise  of  vigilant  common-sense,  and 
knowledge  of  life  and  literature.  At  his  home  he  is  a  serene  and 
optimistic  philosopher,  contemplating  the  forces  that  make  for  our 
civilization,  and  musing  over  the  deep  problems  of  man's  occupa- 
tion of  this  earth.  In  1893  appeared  anonymously  a  volume  entitled 
*God  in  His  World,*  which  attracted  instantly  wide  attention  in  this 
country  and  in  England  for  its  subtlety  of  thought,  its  boldness  of 
treatment,  its  winning  sweetness  of  temper,  and  its  exquisite  style. 
It  was  by  Mr.  Alden,  and  in  1895  it  was  followed  by  *A  Study  of 
Death,*  continuing  the  great  theme  of  the  first,  —  the  unity  of  crea- 
tion, the  certainty  that  there  is'  in  no  sense  a  war  between  the 
Creator  and  his  creation.  In  this  view  the  Universe  is  not  divided 
into  the  Natural  and  the  Supernatural:  all  is  Natural.  But  we  can 
speak  here  only  of  their  literary  quality.  The  author  is  seen  to  be  a 
poet  in  his  conceptions,  but  in  form  his  writing  is  entirely  within 
the  limits  of  prose;  yet  it  is  a  prose  most  harmonious,  m'ost  melodi- 
ous, and  it  exhibits  the  capacity  of  our  English  tongue  in  the  hand  of 
a  master.  The  thought  is  sometimes  so  subtle  as  to  elude  the  care- 
less reader,  but  the  charm  of  the  melody  never  fails  to  entrance. 
The  study  of  life  and  civilization  is  profound,  but  the  grace  of  treat- 
ment seems  to  relieve  the  problems  of  half  their  difficulty. 

His  wife  did  not  live  to  read  the  exquisite  dedi'^ation  given  below. 


HENRY  M.   ALDEN  305 

From  <A  Study  of  Death, >  copyright  1895,  by  Harper  and  Brothers 
A  DEDICATION 

TO    MY    BELOVED    WIFE 

MY  EARLIEST  written  expression  of  intimate  thought  or  cher- 
ished fancy  was  for  your  eyes  only;  it  was  my  first 
approach  to  your  maidenly  heart,  a  mystical  wooing,  which 
neglected  no  resource,  near  or  remote,  for  the  enhancement  of 
its  charm,  and  so  involved  all  other  mystery  in  its  own. 

In  you,  childhood  has  been  inviolate,  never  losing  its  power 
of  leading  me  by  an  unspoken  invocation  to  a  green  field,  ever 
kept  fresh  by  a  living  fountain,  where  the  Shepherd  tends  his 
flock.  Now,  through  a  body  racked  with  pain,  and  sadly  broken, 
still  shines  this  unbroken  childhood,  teaching  me  Love's  deepest 
mystery. 

It  is  fitting,  then,  that  I  should  dedicate  to  you  this  book 
touching  that  mystery.  It  has  been  written  in  the  shadow,  but 
illumined  by  the  brightness  of  an  angel's  face  seen  in  the  dark- 
ness, so  that  it  has  seemed  easy  and  natural  for  me  to  find  at 
the  thorn's  heart  a  secret  and  everlasting  sweetness  far  surpass- 
ing that  of  the  rose  itself,  which  ceases  in  its  own  perfection. 

Whether  that  angel  we  have  seen  shall,  for  my  need  and 
comfort,  and  for  your  own  longing,  hold  back  his  greatest  gift, 
and  leave  you  mine  in  the  earthly  ways  we  know  and  love,  or 
shall  hasten  to  make  the  heavenly  surprise,  the  issujs  in  either 
event  will  be  a  home-coming:  if  here^  yet  already  the  deeper 
secret  will  have  been  in  part  disclosed;  and  if  beyond,  that 
secret,  fully  known,  will  not  betray  the  fondest  hope  of  loving 
hearts.  Love  never  denied  Death,  and  Death  will  not  deny 
Love. 


From  <A  Study  of  Death, >  copyright  1895,  by  Harper  and  Brothers 
THE   DOVE  AND  THE  SERPENT 

THE    Dove    flies,    and    the    Serpent    creeps.      Yet   is    the    Dove 
fond,   while  the  Serpent   is  the   emblem  of  wisdom.      Both 
were  in  Eden:  the  cooing,  fluttering,  winged  spirit,  loving 
to  descend,  companion -like,   brooding,  following;   and   the   creep- 
ing thing  which  had  glided  into  the  sunshine  of  Paradise  from 
the  cold  bosoms  of  those  nurses  of  an  older  world — Pain,  and 
I — 20 


300  HENRY  Ri.  ALDEN 

Darkness,  and  Death  —  himself  forgetting  these  in  the  warmth 
and  green  life  of  the  Garden.  And  our  first  parents  isinew 
naught  of  these  as  yet  unutterable  mysteries,  any  more  than 
they  knew  that  their  roses  bloomed  over  a  tomb:  so  that  when 
all  animate  creatures  came  to  Adam  to  be  named,  the  meaning 
of  this  living  allegory  which  passed  before  him  was  in  great 
part  hidden,  and  he  saw  no  sharp  line  dividing  the  firmament 
below  from  the  firmament  above;  rather  he  leaned  toward  the 
ground,  as  one  does  in  a  garden,  seeing  how  quickly  it  was 
fashioned  into  the  climbing  trees,  into  the  clean  flowers,  and 
into  his  own  shapely  frame.  It  was  upon  the  ground  he  lay 
when  that  deep  sleep  fell  upon  him  from  which  he  woke  to  find 
his  mate,  lithe  as  the  serpent,  yet  with  the  fluttering  heart  of 
the  dove. 

As  the  Dove,  though  winged  for  flight,  ever  descended,  so  the 
Serpent,  though  unable  wholly  to  leave  the  ground,  tried  ever  to 
lift  himself  therefrom,  as  if  to  escape  some  ancient  bond.  The 
cool  nights  revived  and  nourished  his  memories  of  an  older  time, 
wherein  lay  his  subtile  wisdom,  but  day  by  day  his  aspiring  crest 
grew  brighter.  The  life  of  Eden  became  for  him  oblivion,  the 
light  of  the  sun  obscuring  and  confounding  his  reminiscence,  even 
as  for  Adam  and  Eve  this  life  was  Illusion,  the  visible  disguising 
the  invisible,  and  pleasure  veiling  pain. 

In  Adam  the  culture  of  the  ground  maintained  humility.  He 
was  held,  moreover,  in  lowly  content  by  the  charm  of  the 
woman,  who  was  to  him  like  the  earth  grown  human;  and  since 
she  was  the  daughter  of  Sleep,  her  love  seemed  to  him  restful 
as  the  night.  Her  raven  locks  were  like  the  mantle  of  darkness, 
and  her  voice  had  the  laughter  of  streams  that  lapsed  into 
unseen  depths. 

But  Eve  had  something  of  the  Serpent's  unrest,  as  if  she  too 
had  come  from  the  Under-world,  which  she  would  fain  forget, 
seeking  liberation,  urged  by  desire  as  deep  as  the  abyss  she  had 
left  behind  her,  and  nourished  from  roots  unfathomably  hidden  — 
the  roots  of  the  Tree  of  Life.  She  thus  came  to  have  conversa- 
tion with  the  Serpent. 

In  the  lengthening  days  of  Eden's  one  Summer  these  two 
were  more  and  more  completely  enfolded  in  the  Illusion  of  Light. 
It  was  under  this  spell  that,  dwelling  upon  the  enticement  of 
fruit  good  to  look  at,  and  pleasant  to  the  taste,  the  Serpent 
denied  Death,  and  thought  of  Good  as  separate  from  Evil.  ^^Ye 
shall  not  surely  die,  but  shall  be  as  the  gods,  knowing  good  and 


HENRY  M.  ALDEN 


307 


evil.®  So  far,  in  his  aspiring  day-dream,  had  the  Serpent  fared 
from  his  old  familiar  haunts  —  so  far  from  his  old-world  wisdom ! 

A  surer  omen  would  have  come  to  Eve  had  she  listened  to 
the  plaintive  notes  of  the  bewildered  Dove  that  in  his  downward 
flutterings  had  begun  to  divine  what  the  Serpent  had  come  to 
forget,  and  to  confess  what  he  had  come  to  deny. 

For  already  was  beginning  to  be  felt  **  the  season's  difference,  ^^ 
and  the  grave  mystery,  without  which  Paradise  itself  could  not 
have  been,  was  about  to  be  unveiled, — the  background  of  the 
picture  becoming  its  foreground.  The  fond  hands  plucking  the 
rose  had  found  the  thorn.  Evil  was  known  as  something  by 
itself,  apart  from  Good,  and  Eden  was  left  behind,  as  one  steps 
out  of  infancy. 

From  that  hour  have  the  eyes  of  the  children  of  men  been 
turned  from  the  accursed  earth,  looking  into  the  blue  above, 
straining  their  vision  for  a  glimpse  of  white-robed  angels. 

Yet  it  was  the  Serpent  that  was  lifted  up  in  the  wilderness; 
and  when  He  who  **  became  sin  for  us  '*  was  being  bruised  in  the 
heel  by  the  old  enemy,  the  Dove  descended  upon  Him  at  His 
baptism.  He  united  the  wisdom  of  the  Serpent  with  the  harm- 
lessness  of  the  Dove.  Thus  in  Him  were  bound  together  and 
reconciled  the  elements  which  in  human  thought  had  been  put 
asunder.  In  Him,  Evil  is  overcome  of  Good,  as,  in  Him,  Death 
is  swallowed, up  of  Life;  and  with  His  eyes  we  see  that  the  robes 
of  angels  are  white,  because  they  have  been  washed  in  blood. 


From  <A  Study  of  Death,'  copyright  1895,  by  Harper  and  Brothers 
DEATH   AND   SLEEP 

THE  Angel  of  Death  is  the  invisible  Angel  of  Life.  While  the 
organism  is  alive  as  a  human  embodiment,  death  is  present, 
having  the  same  human  distinction  as  the  life,  from  which 
it  is  inseparable,  being,  indeed,  the  better  half  of  living, — its 
wingM  half,  its  rest  and  inspiration,  its  secret  spring  of  elasticity, 
and  quickness.  Life  came  upon  the  wings  of  Death,  and  so 
departs. 

If  we  think  of  life  apart  from  death  our  thought  is  partial,  as 
if  we  would  give  flight  to  the  arrow  without  bending  the  bow. 
No  living  movement  either  begins  or  is  completed  save  through 
death.  If  the  shuttle  return  not  there  is  no  web;  and  the  text- 
ure of  life  is  woven  through  this  tropic  movement. 


3o8 


HENRY  M.  ALDEN 


It  is  a  commonly  accepted  scientific  truth  that  the  continu- 
ance of  life  in  any  living  thing  depends  upon  death.  But  there 
are  two  ways  of  expressing  this  truth :  one,  regarding  merely 
the  outward  fact,  as  when  we  say  that  animal  or  vegetable  tissue 
is  renewed  through  decay;  the  other,  regarding  the  action  and 
reaction  proper  to  life  itself,  whereby  it  forever  springs  freshly 
from  its  source.  The  latter  form  of  expression  is  mystical,  in 
the  true  meaning  of  that  term.  We  close  our  eyes  to  the  out- 
ward appearance,  in  order  that  we  may  directly  confront  a  mys- 
tery which  is  already  past  before  there  is  any  visible  indication 
thereof.  Though  the  imagination  engaged  in  this  mystical  appre- 
hension borrows  its  symbols  or  analogues  from  observation  and 
experience,  yet  these  symbols  are  spiritually  regarded  by  looking 
at  life  on  its  living  side,  and  abstracted  as  far  as  possible  from 
outward  embodiment.  We  especially  affect  physiological  ana- 
logues because,  being  derived  from  our  experience,  we  may  the 
more  readily  have  the  inward  regard  of  them;  and  by  passing 
from  one  physiological  analogue  to  another,  and  from  all  these  to 
those  furnished  by  the  processes  of  nature  outside  of  our  bodies, 
we  come  to  an  apprehension  of  the  action  and  reaction  proper  to 
life  itself  as  an  idea  independent  of  all  its  physical  representa- 
tions. 

Thus  we  trace  the  rhythmic  beating  of  the  pulse  to  the  systole 
and  diastole  of  the  heart,  and  we  note  a  similar  alternation  in 
the  contraction  and  relaxation  of  all  our  muscles.  Breathing  is 
alternately  inspiration  and  expiration.  Sensation  itself  is  by  beats, 
and  falls  into  rhythm.  There  is  no  uninterrupted  strain  of  either 
action  or  sensibility;  a  current  or  a  contact  is  renewed,  having 
been  broken.  In  psychical  operation  there  is  the  same  alternate 
lapse  and  resurgence.  Memory  rises  from  the  grave  of  oblivion. 
No  holding  can  be  maintained  save  through  alternate  release. 
Pulsation  establishes  circulation,  and  vital  motions  proceed  through 
cycles,  each  one  of  which,  however  minute,  has  its  tropic  of  Can- 
cer and  of  Capricorn.  Then  there  are  the  larger  physiological 
cycles,  like  that  wherein  sleep  is  the  alternation  of  waking.  Pass- 
ing from  the  field  of  our  direct  experience  to  that  of  observation, 
we  note  similar  alternations,  as  of  day  and  night,  summer  and 
winter,  flood  and  ebb  tide;  and  science  discloses  them  at  every 
turn. 

In  considering  the  action  and  reaction  proper  to  life  itself,  we 
here  dismiss  from  view  all  measured  cycles,  whose  beginning  and 
end   are   appreciably   separate;   our   regard   is   confined    to   living 


HENRY  M.  ALDEN  -on 

moments,  so  fleet  that  their  beginning  and  ending  meet  as  in  one 
point,  which  is  seen  to  be  at  once  the  point  of  departure  and  of 
return.  Thus  we  may  speak  of  a  man's  life  as  included  between 
his  birth  and  his  death,  and  with  reference  to  this  physiological 
term,  think  of  him  as  living,  and  then  as  dead;  but  we  may  also 
consider  him  while  living  as  yet  every  moment  dying,  and  in  this 
view  death  is  clearly  seen  to  be  the  inseparable  companion  of 
life, — the  way  of  return,  and  so  of  continuance.  This  pulsation, 
forever  a  vanishing  and  a  resurgence,  so  incalculably  swift  as  tc 
escape  observation,  is  proper  to  life  as  life,  does  not  begin  with 
what  we  call  birth  nor  end  with  what  we  call  death  (considering 
birth  and  death  as  terms  applicable  to  an  individual  existence);  il 
is  forever  beginning  and  forever  ending.  Thus  to  all  manifest 
existence  we  apply  the  term  Nature  {natura),  which  means  **  for- 
ever being  bom " ;  and  on  its  vanishing  side  it  is  moritiira,  or 
"forever  dying.**  Resurrection  is  thus  a  natural  and  perpetual 
miracle.  The  idea  of  life  as  transcending  any  individual  embodi- 
ment is  as  germane  to  science  as  it  is  to  faith. 

Death,  thus  seen  as  essential,  is  lifted  above  its  temporary 
and  visible  accidents.  It  is  no  longer  associated  with  corruption, 
but  rather  with  the  sweet  and  wholesome  freshness  of  life,  being 
the  way  of  its  renewal.  Sweeter  than  the  honey  which  Samson 
found  in  the  lion's  carcass  is  this  everlasting  sweetness  of  Death; 
and  it  is  a  mystery  deeper  than  the  strong  man's  riddle. 

So  is  Death  pure  and  clean,  as  is  the  dew  that  comes  with  the 
cool  night  when  the  sun  has  set;  clean  and  white  as  the  snow- 
flakes  that  betoken  the  absolution  which  Winter  gives,  shriving 
the  earth  of  all  her  Summer  wantonness  and  excess,  when  only 
the  trees  that  yield  balsam  and  aromatic  fragrance  remain  green, 
breaking  the  box  of  precious  ointment  for  burial. 

In  this  view  also  is  restored  the  kinship  of  Death  with  Sleep. 

The  state  of  the  infant  seems  to  be  one  of  chronic  mysticism, 
since  during  the  greater  part  of  its  days  its  eyes  are  closed  to 
the  outer  world.  Its  larger  familiarity  is  still  with  the  invisible, 
and  it  seems  as  if  the  Mothers  of  Darkness  were  still  withholding 
it  as  their  nursling,  accomplishing  for  it  some  mighty  work 
in  their  proper  realm,  some  such  fiery  baptism  of  infants  as  is 
frequently  instanced  in  Greek  mythology,  tempering  them  for 
earthly  trials.  The  infant  must  needs  sleep  while  this  work  is 
being  done  for  it;  it  has  been  sleeping  since  the  work  began, 
from  the  foundation  of  the  world,  and  the  old  habit  still  clings 
about  it  and  is  not  easily  laid  aside, 


2IO  HENRY   M.  ALDEN 

Sleep  is  a  special  relaxation,  relieving  a  special  strain.  As 
daily  we  build  with  effort  and  design  an  elaborate  superstructure 
above  the  living  foundation,  so  must  this  edifice  nightly  be  laid 
in  ruins.  Sleep  is  thus  a  disembarrassment,  the  unloading  of  a 
burden  wherewith  we  have  weighted  ourselves.  Here  again  we 
are  brought  into  a  kind  of  repentance,  and  receive  absolution. 
Sleep  is  forgiveness. 


From  <A  Study  of  Death,  >  copyright  1895,  by  Harper  and  Brothers 
THE  PARABLE  OF   THE   PRODIGAL 


STANDING  at  the  gate  of  Birth,  it  would  seem  as  if  it  were  the 
vital  destination  of  all  things  to  fly  from  their  source,  as  if 
it  were  the  dominant  desire  of  life  to  enter  into  limitations. 
We  might  mentally  represent  to  ourselves  an  essence  simple  and 
indivisible  that  denies  itself  in  diversified  manifold  existence.  To 
us,  this  side  the  veil,  nay,  immeshed  in  innumerable  veils  that 
hide  from  us  the  Father's  face,  this  insistence  appears  to  have 
the  stress  of  urgency,  as  if  the  effort  of  all  being,  its  unceasing 
travail,  were  like  the  beating  of  the  infinite  ocean  upon  the 
shores  of  Time;  and  as  if,  within  the  continent  of  Time,  all 
existence  were  forever  knocking  at  new  gates,  seeking,  through 
some  as  yet  untried  path  of  progression,  greater  complexity,  a 
deeper  involvement.  All  the  children  seem  to  be  beseeching  the 
Father  to  divide  unto  them  His  living,  none  willingly  abiding  in 
that  Father's  house.  But  in  reality  their  will  is  His  will  —  they 
fly,  and  they  are  driven,  like  fledglings  from  the  mother-nest. 


The  story  of  a  solar  system,  or  of  any  synthesis  in  time, 
repeats  the  parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  in  its  essential  features. 
It  is  a  cosmic  parable. 

The  planet  is  a  wanderer  {planes),  and  the  individual  planet- 
ary destiny  can  be  accomplished  only  through  flight  from  its 
source.     After  all  its  prodigality  it  shall  sicken  and  return. 

Attributing  to  the  Earth,  thus  apparently  separated  from  the 
Sun,  some  macrocosmic  sentience,  what  must  have  been  her  won- 
dering dream,  finding  herself  at  once  thrust  away  and  securely 


HENRY  M.  ALDEN 


3" 


nelc\  poised  betv'iren  her  flight  and  her  bond,  and  so  swinging 
into  a  regular  orbit  about  the  Sun,  while  at  the  same  time,  in 
her  rotation,  turning  to  him  and  away  from  him  —  into  the  light, 
and  into  the  darkness,  forever  denying  and  confessing  her  lord! 
Her  emotion  must  have  been  one  of  delight,  however  mingled 
with  a  feeling  of  timorous  awe,  since  her  desire  could  not  have 
been  other  than  one  with  her  destination.  Despite  the  distance 
and  the  growing  coolness  she  could  feel  the  kinship  still;  her 
pulse,  though  modulated,  was  still  in  rhythm  with  that  of  the 
solar  heart,  and  in  her  bosom  were  hidden  consubstantial  fires. 
But  it  was  the  sense  of  otherness,  of  her  own  distinct  individua- 
tion, that  was  mainly  being  nourished,  this  sense,  moreover, 
being  proper  to  her  destiny;  therefore,  the  signs  of  her  likeness 
to  the  Sun  were  more  and  more  being  buried  from  her  view; 
her  fires  were  veiled  by  a  hardening  crust,  and  her  opaqueness 
stood  out  against  his  light.  She  had  no  regret  for  all  she  was 
surrendering,  thinking  only  of  her  gain,  of  being  clothed  upon 
with  a  garment  showing  ever  some  new  fold  of  surprising  beauty 
and  wonder.  If  she  had  remained  in  the  Father's  house  — 
like  the  elder  brother  in  the  Parable  —  then  would  all  that  He 
had  have  been  hers,  in  nebulous  simplicity.  But  now,  holding 
her  revels  apart,  she  seems  to  sing  her  own  song,  and  to  dream 
her  own  beautiful  dream,  wandering,  with  a  motion  wholly  hel 
own,  among  the  gardens  of  cosmic  order  and  loveliness.  She 
glories  in  her  many  veils,  which,  though  they  hide  from  her  both 
her  source  and  her  very  self,  are  the  media  through  which  the 
invisible  light  is  broken  into  multiform  illusions  that  enrich  her 
dream.  She  beholds  the  Sun  as  a  far-off,  insphered  being  existing 
for  her,  her  ministrant  bridegroom;  and  when  her  face  is  turned 
away  from  him  into  the  night,  she  beholds  innumerable  suns,  a 
myriad  of  archangels,  all  witnesses  of  some  infinitely  remote  and 
central  flame  —  the  Spirit  of  all  life.  Yet,  in  the  midst  of  these 
visible  images,  she  is  absorbed  in  her  individual  dream,  wherein 
she  appears  to  herself  to  be  the  mother  of  all  living.  It  is  proper 
to  her  destiny  that  she  should  be  thus  enwrapped  in  her  own 
distinct  action  and  passion,  and  refer  to  herself  the  appearances 
of  a  universe.  While  all  that  is  not  she  is  what  she  really  is, — 
necessary,  that  is,  to  her  full  definition, —  she,  on  the  other  hand, 
from  herself  interprets  all  else.  This  is  the  inevitable  terrestrial 
idealism,  peculiar  to  every  individuation  ili  time  —  the  individual 
thus  balancing  the  universe. 


312  .  HENRY  M.  ALDEN 

ni 

In  reality,  the  Earth  has  never  left  the  Sun;  apart  from  him 
she  has  no  life,  any  more  than  has  the  branch  severed  from  the 
vine.  More  truly  it  may  be  said  that  the  Sun  has  never  left  the 
Earth. 

No  prodigal  can  really  leave  the  Father's  house,  any  more  than 
he  can  leave  himself;  coming  to  himself,  he  feels  the  Father's 
arms  about  him  —  they  have  always  been  there  —  he  is  newly 
appareled,  and  wears  the  signet  ring  of  native  prestige;  he  hears 
the  sound  of  familiar  music  and  dancing,  and  it  may  be  that  the 
young  and  beautiful  forms  mingling  with  him  in  this  festival  are 
the  riotous  youths  and  maidens  of  his  far-country  revels,  also 
come  to  themselves  and  home,  of  whom  also  the  Father  saith; 
These  were  dead  and  are  alive  again,  they  were  lost  and  are 
found.  The  starvation  and  sense  of  exile  had  been  parts  of  a 
troubled  dream  —  a  dream  which  had  also  had  its  ecstasy,  but 
had  come  into  a  consuming  fever,  with  delirious  imaginings  of 
fresh  fountains,  of  shapes  drawn  from  the  memory  of  childhood, 
and  of  the  cool  touch  of  kindred  hands  upon  the  brow.  So  near 
is  exile  to  home,  misery  to  divine  commiseration  —  so  near  are 
pain  and  death,  desolation  and  divestiture,  to  *^a  new  creature,* 
and  to  the  kinship  involved  in  all  creation  and  re-creation. 

Distance  in  the  cosmic  order  is  a  standing-apart,  which  is  only 
another  expression  of  the  expansion  and  abundance  of  creative 
life;  but  at  every  remove  its  reflex  is  nearness,  a  bond  of  at- 
traction, insphering  and  curving,  making  orb  and  orbit.  While 
in  space  this  attraction  is  diminished  —  being  inversely  as  the 
square  of  the  distance  —  and  so  there  is  maintained  and  empha- 
sized the  appearance  of  suspension  and  isolation,  yet  in  time  it 
gains  preponderance,  contracting  sphere  and  orbit,  aging  planets 
and  suns,  and  accumulating  destruction,  which  at  the  point  of 
annihilation  becomes  a  new  creation.  This  Grand  Cycle,  which  is 
but  a  pulsation  or  breath  of  the  Eternal  life,  illustrates  a  truth 
which  is  repeated  in  its  least  and  most  minutely  divided  mo- 
ment—  that  birth  lies  next  to  death,  as  water  crystallizes  at  the 
frfeezing-point,  and  the  plant  blossoms  at  points  most  remote  from 
the  source  of  nutrition. 


313 


THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH 
(1837-) 

POET  in  verse  often  becomes  a  poet  in  prose  also,  in  com- 
posing novels;  although  the  novelist  may  not,  and  in  gen- 
eral does  not,  possess  the  faculty  of  writing  poems.  The 
poet-novelist  is  apt  to  put  into  his  prose  a  good  deal  of  the  same 
charm  and  the  same  picturesque  choice  of  phrase  and  image  that 
characterize  his  verse;  while  it  does  not  follow  that  the  novelist  who 
at  times  writes  verse  —  like  George  Eliot,  for  example  —  succeeds  in 
giving  a  distinctly  poetic  quality  to  prose,  or  even  wishes  to  do 
so.  Among  authors  who  have  displayed 
peculiar  power  and  won  fame  in  the  dual 
capacity  of  poet  and  of  prose  romancer  or 
novelist,  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Victor  Hugo 
no  doubt  stand  pre-eminent;  and  in  Amer- 
ican literature,  Edgar  Allan  Poe  and  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes  very  strikingly  combine 
these  two  functions.  Another  American 
author  who  has  gained  a  distinguished 
position  both  as  a  poet  and  as  a  writer  of 
prose  fiction  and  essays  is  Thomas  Bailey 
Aldrich. 

It    is    upon    his    work    in    the    form    of 
verse,  perhaps,  that  Aldrich's  chief  renown 

is  based;  but  some  of  his  short  stories  in  especial  have  contributed 
much  to  his  popularity,  no  less  than  to  his  repute  as  a  delicate  and 
polished  artificer  in  words.  A  New  Englander,  he  has  infused  into 
some  of  his  poems  the  true  atmosphere  of  New  England,  and  has 
given  the  same  light  and  color  of  home  to  his  prose,  while  impart- 
ing to  his  productions  in  both  kinds  a  delightful  tinge  of  the  foreign 
and  remote.  In  addition  to  his  capacities  as  a  poet  and  a  romancer, 
he  is  a  wit  and  humorist  of  sparkling  quality.  In  reading  his  books 
one  seems  also  to  inhale  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  and  the  farther 
East,  blended  with  the  salt  sea-breeze  and  the  pine-scented  air  of 
his  native  State,  New  Hampshire. 

He  was  born  in  the  old  seaside  town  of  Portsmouth,  New  Hamp- 
shire, November  nth,  1837;  but  moved  to  New  York  City  in  1854,  at 
the  age  of  seventeen.    There  he  remained  until  1866;  beginning  his 


Thomas  B.  Aldrich 


314 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


work  quite  early;  forming  his  literary  character  by  reading  and  ob- 
servation, by  the  writing  of  poems,  and  by  practice  and  experience 
of  writing  prose  sketches  and  articles  for  journals  and  periodicals. 
During  this  period  he  entered  into  associations  with  the  poets  Sted- 
man,  Stoddard,  and  Bayard  Taylor,  and  was  more  or  less  in  touch 
with  the  group  that  included  Walt  Whitman,  Fitz-James  O'Brien, 
and  William  Winter.  Removing  to  Boston  in  January,  1866,  he  be- 
came the  editor  of  Every  Saturday,  and  remained  in  that  post  until 
1874,  when  he  resigned.  In  1875  he  made  a  long  tour  in  Europe, 
plucking  the  first  fruits  of  foreign  travel,  which  were  succeeded  by 
many  rich  and  dainty  gatherings  from  the  same  source  in  later 
years.  In  the  intervals  of  these  wanderings  he  lived  in  Boston  and 
Cambridge;  occupying  for  a  time  James  Russell  Lowell's  hi.storic 
house  of  Elmwood,  in  the  semi-rural  university  city;  and  then  estab- 
lished a  pretty  country  house  at  Ponkapog,  a  few  miles  west  of 
Boston.  This  last  suggested  the  title  for  a  charming  book  of  travel 
papers,  *From  Ponkapog  to  Pesth.*  In  1881  he  was  appointed  editor  of 
the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  continued  to  direct  that  famous  magazine 
for  nine  years,  frequently  making  short  trips  to  Europe,  extending 
his  tours  as  far  as  the  heart  of  Russia,  and  gathering  fresh  materials 
for  essay  or  song.  Much  of  his  time  since  giving  up  the  Atlantic 
editorship  has  been  passed  in  voyaging,  and  in  1894-5  he  made  a 
journey  around  the  world. 

From  the  beginning  he  struck  with  quiet  certainty  the  vein  that 
v/as  his  by  nature  in  poetry;  and  this  has  broadened  almost  contin- 
ually, yielding  richer  results,  which  have  been  worked  out  with  an 
increasing  refinement  of  skill.  His  predilection  is  for  the  picturesque; 
for  romance  combined  with  simplicity,  purity,  and  tenderness  of 
feeling,  touched  by  fancy  and  by  occasional  lights  of  humor  so 
reserved  and  dainty  that  they  never  disturb  the  pictorial  harmony. 
The  capacity  for  unaffected  utterance  of  feeling  on  matters  common 
to  humanity  reached  a  climax  in  the  poem  of  ^  Baby  Bell,*  which 
by  its  sympathetic  and  delicate  description  of  a  child's  advent  and 
death  gave  the  author  a  claim  to  the  affections  of  a  wide  circle ;  and 
this  remained  for  a  long  time  probably  the  best  known  among  his 
poems.  *  Friar  Jerome's  Beautiful  Book '  is  another  of  the  earlier 
favorites.  *  Spring  in  New  England  *  has  since  come  to  hold  high 
rank  both  for  its  vivid  and  graceful  description  of  the  season,  for  its 
tender  fervor  of  patriotism,  and  for  its  sentiment  of  reconciliation 
between  North  and  South.  The  lines  on  <  Piscataqua  River  *  remain 
one  of  the  best  illustrations  of  boyhood  memories,  and  have  some- 
thing of  Whittier's  homely  truth.  In  his  longer  narrative  pieces, 
*  Judith*  and  ^Wyndham  Towers,*  cast  in  the  mold  of  blank- verse 
idyls,  Mr.  Aldrich  does  not  seem  so  much  himself  as  in  many  of  his 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


315 


briefer  flights.  An  instinctive  dramatic  tendency  finds  outlet  in 
*  Pauline  Paulovna*  and  <  Mercedes  >  —  the  latter  of  which,  a  two-act 
piece  in  prose,  has  found  representation  in  the  theatre;  yet  in  these, 
also,  he  is  less  eminently  successful  than  in  his  lyrics  and  society 
verse. 

No  American  poet  has  wrought  his  stanzas  with  greater  faithful- 
ness to  an  exacting  standard  of  craftsmanship  than  Mr.  Aldrich,  or 
has  known  better  when  to  leave  a  line  loosely  cast,  and  when  to  rein- 
force it  with  correction  or  with  a  syllable  that  might  seem,  to  an  ear 
less  true,  redundant.  This  gives  to  his  most  carefully  chiseled  pro- 
ductions an  air  of  spontaneous  ease,  and  has  made  him  eminent  as  a 
sonneteer.  His  sonnet  on  <  Sleep  *  is  one  of  the  finest  in  the  lan- 
guage. The  conciseness  and  concentrated  aptness  of  his  expression 
also  —  together  with  a  faculty  of  bringing  into  conjunction  subtly 
contrasted  thoughts,  images,  or  feelings  —  has  issued  happily  in  short, 
concentrated    pieces    like    <  An    Untimely    Thought,'    <  Destiny, >    and 

<  Identity,  >  and  in  a  number  of  pointed  and  effective  quatrains.  With- 
out overmastering  purpose  outside  of  art  itself,  his  is  the  poetry  of 
luxury  rather  than  of  deep  passion  or  conviction;  yet,  with  the  fresh- 
ness of  bud  and  tint  in  springtime,  it  still  always  relates  itself  effect- 
ively to  human  experience.  The  author's  specially  American  quality, 
also,  though  not  dominant,  comes  out  clearly  in  <  Unguarded  Gates,* 
and  with  a  differing  tone  in  the  plaintive  Indian  legend  of  <Mianto- 
wona.  * 

If  we  perceive  in  his  verse  a  kinship  with  the  dainty  ideals  of 
Theophile  Gautier  and  Alfred  de  Musset,  this  does  not  obscure  his 
originality  or  his  individual  charm;  and  the  same  thing  may  be  said 
with  regard  to  his  prose.  The  first  of  his  short  fictions  that  made  a 
decided  mark  was  <  Marjorie  Daw.>  The  fame  which  it  gained,  in 
its  separate  field,  was  as  swift  and  widespread  as  that  of  Hawthorne's 
*The  Gentle  Boy'  or  Bret  Harte's  <  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp.'  It  is  a 
bright  and  half-pathetic  little  parody  on  human  life  and  affection;  or 
perhaps  we  should  call  it  a  parable  symbolizing  the  power  which 
imagination  wields  over  real  life,  even  in  supposedly  unimaginative 
people.  The  covert  smile  which  it  involves,  at  the  importance  of 
human  emotions,  may  be  traced  to  a  certain  extent  in  some  of  Mr. 
Aldrich's  longer  and  more  serious  works  of   fiction:  his  three  novels, 

<  Prudence  Palfrey,'  <  The  Queen  of  Sheba,'  and  <The  Stillwater 
Tragedy.'  ^The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,'  frankly  but  quietly  humorous 
in  its  record  of  the  pranks  and  vicissitudes  of  a  healthy  average  lad 
(with  the  scene  of  the  story  localized  at  old  Portsmouth,  under  the 
name  of  Rivermouth),  a  less  ambitious  work,  still  holds  a  secure 
place  in  the  affections  of  many  mature  as  well  as  younger  readers. 
Besides  these  books,  Mr.  Aldrich  has  published  a  collection  of  short 


3i6 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


descriptive,  reminiscent,  and  half-historic  papers  on  Portsmouth, — 
<An  Old  Town  by  the  Sea>;  with  a  second  volume  of  short  stories 
entitled  *  Two  Bites  at  a  Cherry.  >  The  character-drawing  in  his 
fiction  is  clear-cut  and  effective,  often  sympathetic,  and  nearly  always 
suffused  with  an  agreeable  coloring  of  humor.  There  are  notes  of 
pathos,  too,  in  some  of  his  tales;  and  it  is  the  blending  of  these 
qualities,  through  the  medium  of  a  lucid  and  delightful  style,  that 
defines  his  pleasing  quality  in  prose. 


T 


DESTINY 

HREE  roses,  wan  as  moonlight,  and  weighed  down 
Each  with  its  loveliness  as  with  a  crown, 
Drooped  in  a  florist's  window  in  a  town. 


The  first  a  lover  bought.     It  lay  at  rest. 

Like  flower  on  flower,  that  night,  on  Beauty's  breast. 

The  second  rose,  as  virginal  and  fair, 
Shrunk  in  the  tangles  of  a  harlot's  hair. 

The  third,  a  widow,  with  new  grief  made  wild. 
Shut  in  the  icy  palm  of  her  dead  child. 


IDENTITY 

SOMEWHERE  —  in  desolatc  wind-swept  space  ■ 
In  Twilight-land  —  in  No-man's  land  — 
Two  hurrying  Shapes  met  face  to  face, 
And  bade  each  other  stand. 

^  And  who  are  you  ?  '^  cried  one,  agape. 

Shuddering  in  the  gloaming  light. 
«I  know  not,*  said  the  second  Shape, 
«I  only  died  last  night!* 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


PRESCIENCE 


317 


THE  new  moon  hung  in  the  sky,  the  sun  was  low  in  the  west, 
And  my  betrothed  and  I  in  the  churchyard  paused  to  rest  — 
Happy  maiden  and  lover,  dreaming  the  old  dream  over: 
The  light  winds  wandered  by,  and  robins  chirped  from  the  nest. 

And  lo!  in  the  meadow-sweet  was  the  grave  of  a  little  child. 
With  a  crumbling  stone  at  the  feet  and  the  ivy  running  wild — 

Tangled  ivy  and  clover  folding  it  over  and  over: 
Close  to  my  sweetheart's  feet  was  the  little  mound  up-piled. 

Stricken  with  nameless  fears,  she  shrank  and  clung  to  me, 
And  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  for  a  sorrow  I  did  not  see: 

Lightly  the  winds  were  blowing,  softly  her  tears  were  flowing 
Tears  for  the  unknown  years  and  a  sorrow  that  was  to  be! 


ALEC  YEATON'S  SON 

GLOUCESTER,    AUGUST,    1720 


T 


HE  wind  it  wailed,  the  wind  it  moaned, 
And  the  white  caps  flecked  the  sea; 
"An*  I  would  to  God,"  the   skipper  groanec 

*1  had  not  my  boy  with  me!'* 


Snug  in  the  stem-sheets,  little  John 
Laughed  as  the  scud  swept  by; 

But  the  skipper's  sunburnt  cheek  grew  wan 
As  he  watched  the  wicked  sky. 

"Would  he  were  at  his  mother's  side'.** 
And  the  skipper's  eyes  were  dim. 

"Good  Lord  in  heaven,  if  ill  betide. 
What  would  become  of  him! 

"For  me  —  my  muscles  are  as  steel, 

For  me  let  hap  what  may; 
I  might  make  shift  upon  the  keel 

Until  the  break  o'  day. 

"But  he,  he  is  so  weak  and  small. 
So  young,  scarce  learned  to  stand  — 

O  pitying  Father  of  us  all, 
I  trust  him  in  thy  hand! 


?l8  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

*For  thou  who  markest  from  on  high 
A  sparrow's  fall  —  each  one!  — 

Siarely,  O  Lord,  thou'lt  have  an  eye 
On  Alec  Yeaton's  son!>> 

Then,  helm  hard-port,  right  straight  he  sailed 
Towards  the  headland  light: 

The  wind  it  moaned,  the  wind  it  wailed. 
And  black,  black  fell  the  night. 

Then  burst  a  storm  to  make  one  quail. 

Though  housed  from  winds  and  waves  — 
They  who  could  tell  about  that  gale 

Must  rise  from  watery  graves! 

Sudden  it  came,  as  sudden  went; 

Ere  half  the  night  was  sped. 
The  winds  were  hushed,  the  waves  were  sper" 

And  the  stars  shone  overhead. 

Now,  as  the  morning  mist  grew  thin, 
The  folk  on  Gloucester  shore 

Saw  a  little  figure  floating  in 
Secure,  on  a  broken  oar! 

Up  rose  the  cry,  <<A  wreck!  a  wreck! 

Pull  mates,  and  waste  no  breath!'*  — 
I'hey  knew  it,  though  'twas  but  a  speck 

Upon  the  edge  of  death! 

Long  did  they  marvel  in  the  town 

At  God  his  strange  decree. 
That  let  the  stalwart  skipper  drown 

And  the  little  child  go  free! 

MEMORY 

My  mind  lets  go  a  thousand  things. 
Like  dates  of  wars  and  deaths  of  kings. 
And  yet  recalls  the  very  hour  — 
'T  was  noon  by  yonder  village  tower. 
And  on  the  last  blue  noon  in  May  — 
The  wind  came  briskly  up  this  way, 
Crisping  the  brook  beside  the  road, 
Then,  pausing  here,  set  down  its  load 
Of  pine-scents,  and  shook  listlessly 
Two  petals  from  that  wild-rose  tree. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  319 

TENNYSON  (1890) 


SHAKESPEARE  and  Miltoii  —  what  third  blazoned  name 
Shall  lips  of  after  ages  link  to  these  ? 
His  who,  beside  the  wild  encircling  seas. 
Was  England's  voice,  her  voice  with  one  acclaim, 

For  threescore  years;  whose  word  of  praise  was  fame, 
Whose  scorn  gave  pause  to  man's  iniquities. 


What  strain  was  his  in  that  Crimean  war? 
A  bugle-call  in  battle;  a  low  breath, 
Plaintive  and  sweet,  above  the  fields  of  death! 
So  year  by  year  the  music  rolled  afar. 
From  Euxine  wastes  to  flowery  Kandahar, 
Bearing  the  laurel  or  the  cypress  wreath. 

Ill 

Others  shall  have  their  little  space  of  time. 

Their  proper  niche  and  bust,  then  fade  away 
Into  the  darkness,  poets  of  a  day; 
But  thou,  O  builder  of  enduring  rhyme, 
Thou  shalt  not  pass!     Thy  fame  in  every  clime 

On  earth  shall  live  where  Saxon  speech  has  sway. 

IV 

Waft  me  this  verse  across  the  winter  sea. 

Through  light  and  dark,  through  mist  and  blinding 

sleet, 
O  winter  winds,  and  lay  it  at  his  feet; 
Though  the  poor  gift  betray  my  poverty, 
At  his  feet  lay  it;  it  may  chance  that  he 

Will  find  no  gift,  where  reverence  is,  unmeet. 

SWEETHEART.   SIGH   NO  MORE 

IT  WAS  with  doubt  and  trembling 
I  whispered  in  her  ear. 
Go,  take  her  answer,  bird-on-bough, 
That  all  the  world  may  hear — 
Sweetheart,  sigh  no  more! 


Sing  it,  sing  it,  tawny  throat, 
iJpon  the  wayside  tree, 


320  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

How  fair  she  is,  how  true  she  is. 
How  dear  she  is  to  me  — 
Sweetheart,  sigh  no  more! 

Sing  it,  sing  it,  and  through  the  summer  long 
The  winds  among  the  clover-tops. 

And  brooks,  for  all  their  silvery  stops. 
Shall  envy  you  the  song  — 
Sweetheart,  sigh  no  more! 

BROKEN  MUSIC 

«  A  note 
All  out  of  tune  in  this  world's  instrument. » 

Amy  Levy. 

I   KNOW  not  in  what  fashion  she  was  made. 
Nor  what  her  voice  was,  when  she  used  to  speak, 
Nor  if  the  silken  lashes  threw  a  shade 
On  wan  or  rosy  cheek. 

I  picture  her  with  sorrowful  vague  eyes. 

Illumed  with  such  strange  gleams  of  inner  light 
As  linger  in  the  drift  of  London  skies 
Ere  twilight  turns  to  night. 

I  know  not;  I  conjecture.     'Twas  a  girl 

That  with  her  own  most  gentle  desperate  hand 
From  out  God's  mystic  setting  plucked  life's  pearl — ■ 
'Tis  hard  to  understand. 

So  precious  life  is!     Even  to  the  old 

The  hours  are  as  a  miser's  coins,  and  she  — 
Within  her  hands  lay  youth's  unminted  gold 
And  all  felicity. 

The  winged  impetuous  spirit,  the  white  flame 

That  was  her  soul  once,  whither  has  it  flown? 
Above  her  brow  gray  lichens  blot  her  name 
Upon  the  carven  stone. 

This  is  her  Book  of  Verses  —  wren-like  notes. 

Shy  franknesses,  blind  gropings,  haunting  fears; 
At  times  across  the  chords  abruptly  floats 
A  mist  of  passionate  tears. 

A  fragile  lyre  too  tensely  keyed  and  strung, 

A  broken  music,  weirdly  incomplete: 
Here  a  proud  mind,  self-baffled  and  self-stung, 
Lies  coiled  in  dark  defeat 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

ELMWOOD 
In  Memory  of  James  Russell  Lowell 

HERE,  in  the  twilight,  at  the  well-known  gate 
I  linger,  with  no  heart  to  enter  more. 
Among  the  elm-tops  the  autumnal  air 
Murmurs,  and  spectral  in  the  fading  light 
A  solitary  heron  wings  its  way 
Southward  —  save  this  no  sound  or  touch  of  life. 
Dark  is  the  window  where  the  scholar's  lamp 
Was  used  to  catch  a  pallor  from  the  dawn. 

Yet  I  must  needs  a  little  linger  here. 
Each  shrub  and  tree  is  eloquent  of  him, 
For  tongueless  things  and  silence  have  their  speech. 
This  is  the  path  familiar  to  his  foot 
From  infancy  to  manhood  and  old  age; 
For  in  a  chamber  of  that  ancient  house 
His  eyes  first  opened  on  the  mystery 
Of  life,  and  all  the  splendor  of  the  world. 
Here,  as  a  child,  in  loving,  curious  way. 
He  watched  the  bluebird's  coming;   learned  the  date 
Of  hyacinth  and  goldenrod,  and  made 
Friends  of  those  little  redmen  of  the  elms, 
And  slyly  added  to  their  winter  store 
Of  hazel-nuts:   no  harmless  thing  that  breathed, 
Footed  or  winged,  but  knew  him  for  a  friend. 
The  gilded  butterfly  was  not  afraid 
To  trust  its  gold  to  that  so  gentle  hand. 
The  bluebird  fled  not  from  the  pendent  spray. 
Ah,  happy  childhood,  ringed  with  fortunate  stars! 
What  dreams  were  his  in  this  enchanted  sphere. 
What  intuitions  of  high  destiny! 
The  honey-bees  of  Hybla  touched  his  lips 
In  that  old  New- World  garden,  unawares. 

So  in  her  arms  did  Mother  Nature  fold 
Her  poet,  whispering  what  of  wild  and  sweet 
Into  his  ear  —  the  state-affairs  of  birds. 
The  lore  of  dawn  and  sunset,  what  the  wind 
Said  in  the  tree-tops  —  fine,  unfathomed  things 
Henceforth  to  turn  to  music  in  his  brain: 
A  various  music,  now  like  notes  of  flutes. 
And  now  like  blasts  of  trumpets  blown  in  wars. 

i — 31 


321 


32  2       •  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

Later  he  paced  this  leafy  academe 

A  student,  drinking  from  Greek  chalices 

The  ripened  vintage  of  the  antique  world. 

And  here  to  him  came  love,  and  love's  dear  loss; 

Here  honors  came,  the  deep  applause  of  men 

Touched  to  the  heart  by  some  swift-winged  word 

That  from  his  own  full  heart  took  eager  flight  — 

Some  strain  of  piercing  sweetness  or  rebuke, 

For  underneath  his  gentle  nature  flamed 

A  noble  scorn  for  all  ignoble  deed, 

Himself  a  bondman  till  all  men  were  free. 

Thus  passed  his  manhood;   then  to  other  lands 
He  strayed,  a  stainless  figure  among  courts 
Beside  the  Manzanares  and  the  Thames. 
Whence,  after  too  long  exile,  he  returned 
With  fresher  laurel,  but  sedater  step 
And  eye  more  serious,  fain  to  breathe  the  air 
Where  through  the  Cambridge  marshes  the  blue  Charles 
Uncoils  its  length  and  stretches  to  the  sea: 
Stream  dear  to  him,  at  every  curve  a  shrine 
For  pilgrim  Memory.     Again  he  watched 
His  loved  syringa  whitening  by  the  door, 
And  knew  the  catbird's  welcome;   in  his  walks 
Smiled  on  his  tawny  kinsmen  of  the  elms 
Stealing  his  nuts;   and  in  the  ruined  year 
Sat  at  his  widowed  hearthside  with  bent  brows 
Leonine,  frosty  with  the  breath  of  time. 
And  listened  to  the  crooning  of  the  wind 
In  the  wide  Elmwood  chimneys,  as  of  old. 
And  then  —  and  then     .     .     . 

The  after-glow  has  faded  from  the  elms. 
And  in  the  denser  darkness  of  the  boughs 
From  time  to  time  the  firefly's  tiny  lamp 
Sparkles.     How  often  in  still  summer  dusks 
He  paused  to  note  that  transient  phantom  spark 
Flash  on  the  air  —  a  light  that  outlasts  him! 

The  night  grows  chill,  as  if  it  felt  a  breath 
Blown  from  that  frozen  city  where  he  lies. 
All  things  turn  strange.     The  leaf  that  rustles  here 
Has  more  than  autumn's  mournfulness.     The  place 
Is  heavy  with  his  absence.     Like  fixed  eyes 
Whence  the  dear  light  of  sense  and  thought  has  fled 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  '  323 

The  vacant  windows  stare  across  the  lawn. 
The  wise  sweet  spirit  that  informed  it  all 
Is  otherwhere.     The  house  itself  is  dead. 

O  autumn  wind  among  the  sombre  pines. 
Breathe  you  his  dirge,  but  be  it  sweet  and  low. 
With  deep  refrains  and  murmurs  of  the  sea. 
Like  to  his  verse  —  the  art  is  yours  alone. 
His  once  —  you  taught  him.      Now  no  voice  but  yours! 
Tender  and  low,  O  wind  among  the  pines. 
I  would,  were  mine  a  lyre  of  richer  strings. 
In  soft  Sicilian  accents  wrap  his  name. 


SEA  LONGINGS 

THE  first  world-sound  that  fell  upon  my  ear 
Was  that  of  the  great  winds  along  the  coast 
Crushing  the  deep-sea  beryl  on  the  rocks  — 
The  distant  breakers'  sullen  cannonade. 
Against  the  spires  and  gables  of  the  town 
The  white  fog  drifted,  catching  here  and  there 
At  overleaning  cornice  or  peaked  roof, 
And  hung — weird  gonfalons.     The  garden  walks 
Were  choked  with  leaves,  and  on  their  ragged  biers 
Lay  dead  the  sweets  of  summer  —  damask  rose. 
Clove-pink,  old-fashioned,  loved  New  England  flowers 
Only  keen  salt-sea  odors  filled  the  air. 
Sea-sounds,  sea-odors  —  these  were  all  my  world. 
Hence  is  it  that  life  languishes  with  me 
Inland;  the  valleys  stifle  me  with  gloom 
And  pent-up  prospect;  in  their  narrow  bound 
Imagination  flutters  futile  wings. 
Vainly  I  seek  the  sloping  pearl-white  sand 
And  the  mirage's  phantom  citadels 
Miraculous,  a  moment  seen,  then  gone. 
Among  the  mountains  I  am  ill  at  ease. 
Missing  the  stretched  horizon's  level  line 
And  the  illimitable  restless  blue. 
The  crag-torn  sky  is  not  the  sky  I  love. 
But  one  unbroken  sapphire  spanning  all; 
And  nobler  than  the  branches  of  a  pine 
Aslant  upon  a  precipice's  edge 
Are  the  strained  spars  of  some  great  battle-ship 
Plowing  across  the  sunset.     No  bird's  lilt 


324  '  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

So  takes  me  as  the  whistling  of  the  gale 

Among  the  shrouds.     My  cradle-song  was  this, 

Strange  inarticulate  sorrows  of  the  sea, 

Blithe  rhythms  upgathered  from  the  Sirens'  caves. 

Perchance  of  earthly  voices  the  last  voice 

That  shall  an  instant  my  freed  spirit  stay 

On  this  world's  verge,  will  be  some  message  blown 

Over  the  dim  salt  lands  that  fringe  the  coast 

At  dusk,  or  when  the  tranced  midnight  droops 

With  weight  of  stars,  or  haply  just  as  dawn, 

Illumining  the  sullen  purple  wave, 

Turns  the  gray  pools  and  willow-stems  to  gold. 


A  SHADOW   OF  THE  NIGHT 

CLOSE  on  the  edge  of  a  midsummer  dawn 
In  troubled  dreams  I  went  from  land  to  land, 
Each  seven-colored  like  the  rainbow's  arc. 
Regions  where  never  fancy's  foot  had  trod 
Till  then;  yet  all  the  strangeness  seemed  not  strange, 
At  which  I  wondered,  reasoning  in  my  dream 
With  twofold  sense,  well  knowing  that  I  slept. 
At  last  I  came  to  this  our  cloud-hung  earth. 
And  somewhere  by  the  seashore  was  a  grave, 
A  woman's  grave,  new-made,  and  heaped  with  flowers; 
And  near  it  stood  an  ancient  holy  man 
That  fain  would  comfort  me,  who  sorrowed  not 
For  this  unknown  dead  woman  at  my  feet. 
But  I,  because  his  sacred  office  held 
My  reverence,  listened;  and  'twas  thus  he  spake:  — 
*When  next  thou  comest  thou  shalt  find  her  still 
In  all  the  rare  perfection  that  she  was. 
Thou  shalt  have  gentle  greeting  of  thy  love! 
Her  eyelids  will  have  turned  to  violets. 
Her  bosom  to  white  lilies,  and  her  breath 
To  roses.     What  is  lovely  never  dies, 
But  passes  into  other  loveliness, 
Star-dust,  or  sea-foam,  flower,  or  winged  air. 
If  this  befalls  our  poor  unworthy  flesh. 
Think  thee  what  destiny  awaits  the  soul! 
What  glorious  vesture  it  shall  wear  at  last!* 
While  yet  he  spoke,  sea.shore  and  grave  and  priest 
Vanished,  and  faintly  from  a  neighboring  spire 
Fell  five  slow  solemn  strokes  upon  my  ear. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

Then  I  awoke  with  a  keen  pain  at  heart, 

A  sense  of  swift  unutterable  loss, 

And  through  the  darkness  reached  my  hand  to  touch 

Her  cheek,  soft-pillowed  on  one  restful  palm  — 

To  be  quite  sure! 


OUTWARD  BOUND 

I  LEAVE  behind  me  the  elm-shadowed  square 
And  carven  portals  of  the  silent  street, 
And  wander  on  with  listless,  vagrant  feet 
Through  seaward-leading  alleys,  till  the  air 
Smells  of  the  sea,  and  straightway  then  the  care   " 
Slips  from  my  heart,  and  life  once  more  is  sweet. 
At  the  lane's  ending  lie  the  white-winged  fleet. 
O  restless  Fancy,  whither  wouldst  thou  fare  ? 
Here  are  brave  pinions  that  shall  take  thee  far  — 
Gaunt  hulks  of  Norway;  ships  of  red  Ceylon; 
Slim-masted  lovers  of  the  blue  Azores! 
'Tis  but  an  instant  hence  to  Zanzibar, 
Or  to  the  regions  of  the  Midnight  Sun: 

Ionian  isles  are  thine,  and  all  the  fairy  shores! 


REMINISCENCE 

THOUGH  I  am  native  to  this  frozen  zone 
That  half  the  twelvemonth  torpid  lies,  or  dead; 
Though  the  cold  azure  arching  overhead 
And  the  Atlantic's  never-ending  moan 
Are  mine  by  heritage,  I  must  have  known 
Life  otherwhere  in  epochs  long  since  fled; 
For  in  my  veins  some  Orient  blood  is  red. 
And  through  my  thought  are  lotus  blossoms  blown. 
I  do  remember     ...     it  was  just  at  dusk. 
Near  a  walled  garden  at  the  river's  turn, 

(A  thousand  summers  seem  but  yesterday!) 
A  Nubian  girl,  more  sweet  than  Khoorja  musk. 
Came  to  the  water-tank  to  fill  her  urn, 

And  with  the  urn  she  bore  my  heart  away! 


325 


326  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


PERE  ANTOINE'S   DATE-PALM 

NEAR  the  Lev^e,  and  not  far  from  the  old  French  Cathedral  in 
the  Place  d'Armes,  at  New  Orleans,  stands  a  fine  date- 
palm,  thirty  feet  in  height,  spreading  its  broad  leaves  in 
the  alien  air  as  hardily  as  if  its  sinuous  roots  were  sucking 
strength  from  their  native  earth. 

Sir  Charles  Lyell,  in  his  *  Second  Visit  to  the  United  States,* 
mentions  this  exotic:  —  **The  tree  is  seventy  or  eighty  years  old: 
for  P^re  Antoine,  a  Roman  Catholic  priest,  who  died  about 
twenty  years  ago,  told  Mr.  Bringier  that  he  planted  it  himself, 
when  he  was  young.  In  his  will  he  provided  that  they  who  suc- 
ceeded to  this  lot  of  ground  should  forfeit  it  if  they  cut  down 
the  palm." 

Wishing  to  learn  something  of  P^re  Antoine's  history.  Sir 
Charles  Lyell  made  inquiries  among  the  ancient  Creole  inhabitants 
of  the  faubourg.  That  the  old  priest,  in  his  last  days,  became 
very  much  emaciated,  that  he  walked  about  the  streets  like  a 
mummy,  that  he  gradually  dried  up,  and  finally  blew  away,  was 
the  meagre  and  unsatisfactory  result  of  the  tourist's  investiga- 
tions.    This  is  all  that  is  generally  told  of  P^re  Antoine. 

In  the  summer  of  1861,  while  New  Orleans  was  yet  occupied 
by  the  Confederate  forces,  I  met  at  Alexandria,  in  Virginia,  a 
lady  from  Louisiana  —  Miss  Blondeau  by  name  —  who  gave  me 
the  substance  of  the  following  legend  touching  P^re  Antoine  and 
his  wonderful  date-palm.  If  it  should  appear  tame  to  the  reader, 
it  will  be  because  I  am  not  habited  in  a  black  ribbed-silk  dress, 
with  a  strip  of  point-lace  around  my  throat,  like  Miss  Blondeau; 
it  will  be  because  I  lack  her  eyes  and  lips  and  Southern  music 
to  tell  it  with. 

When  Pere  Antoine  was  a  very  young  man,  he  had  a  friend 
whom  he  loved  as  he  loved  his  life.  Emile  Jardin  returned  his 
passion,  and  the  two,  on  account  of  their  friendship,  became  the 
marvel  of  the  city  where  they  dwelt.  One  was  never  seen  with- 
out the  other;   for  they  studied,  walked,  ate,  and  slept  together. 

Thus  began  Miss  Blondeau,  with  the  air  of  Fiammetta  telling 
her  prettiest  story  to  the  Florentines  in  the  garden  of  Boccaccio. 

Antoine  and  Emile  were  preparing  to  enter  the  Church;  in- 
deed, they  had  taken  the  preliminary  steps,  when  a  circumstance 
occurred    which    changed    the    color   of    their    lives.      A    foreign 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  ^27 

lady,  from  some  nameless  island  in  the  Pacific,  had  a  few- 
months  before  moved  into  their  neighborhood.  The  lady  died 
suddenly,  leaving  a  girl  of  sixteen  or  seventeen,  entirely  friend- 
less and  unprovided  for.  The  young  men  had  been  kind  to  the 
woman  during  her  illness,  and  at  her  death  —  melting  with  pity 
at  the  forlorn  situation  of  Anglice,  the  daughter  —  swore  between 
themselves  to  love  and  watch  over  her  as  if  she  were  their  sister. 

Now  Anglice  had  a  wild,  strange  beauty  that  made  other 
women  seem  tame  beside  her;  and  in  the  course  of  time  the 
young  men  found  themselves  regarding  their  ward  not  so  much 
like  brothers  as  at  first.  In  brief,  they  found  themselves  in 
love  with  her. 

They  struggled  with  their  hopeless  passion  month  after  month, 
neither  betraying  his  secret  to  the  other;  for  the  austere  orders 
which  they  were  about  to  assume  precluded  the  idea  of  love  and 
marriage.  Until  then  they  had  dwelt  in  the  calm  air  of  religious 
meditations,  unmoved  except  by  that  pious  fervor  which  in  other 
ages  taught  men  to  brave  the  tortures  of  the  rack  and  to  smile 
amid  the  flames.  But  a  blonde  girl,  with  great  eyes  and  a  voice 
like  the  soft  notes  of  a  vesper  hymn,  had  come  in  between  them 
and  their  ascetic  dreams  of  heaven.  The  ties  that  had  bound 
the  young  men  together  snapped  silently  one  by  one.  At  last 
each  read  in  the  pale  face  of  the  other  the  story  of  his  own 
despair. 

And  she  ?  If  Anglice  shared  their  trouble,  her  face  told  no 
story.  It  was  like  the  face  of  a  saint  on  a  cathedral  window. 
Once,  however,  as  she  came  suddenly  upon  the  two  men  and 
overheard  words  that  seemed  to  bum  like  fire  on  the  lip  of  the 
speaker,  her  eyes  grew  luminous  for  an  instant.  Then  she  passed 
on,  her  face  as  immobile  as  before  in  its  setting  of  wavy  gold 
hair. 

*Entre  or  et  roux  Dieu  fit  ses  longs  cheveux.* 

One  night  Emile  and  Anglice  were  missing.  They  had  flown 
—  but  whither,  nobody  knew,  and  nobody  save  Antoine  cared. 
It  was  a  heavy  blow  to  Antoine  —  for  he  had  himself  half  re- 
solved to  confess  his  love  to  Anglice  and  urge  her  to  fly  with  him. 

A  strip  of  paper  slipped  from  a  volume  on  Antoine's  prie- 
dieu,  and  fluttered  to  his  feet. 

*Z>d  not  be  angry, ^^  said  the  bit  of  paper,  piteously;  '-^forgive 
us^  for  we  love.  **     ( "  Pardonnez-nous,  car  nous  aimon.=  * ) 


328 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


Three  years  went  by  wearily  enough.  Antoine  had  entered 
the  Church,  and  was  already  looked  upon  as  a  rising  man;  but 
his  face  was  pale  and  his  heart  leaden,  for  there  was  no  sweet- 
ness in  life  for  him. 

Four  years  had  elapsed,  when  a  letter,  covered  with  out- 
landish postmarks,  was  brought  to  the  young  priest  —  a  letter 
from  Anglice.  She  was  dying ;  —  would  he  forgive  her  ?  Emile, 
the  year  previous,  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  fever  that  raged  on 
the  island;  and  their  child,  Anglice,  was  likely  to  follow  him. 
In  pitiful  terms  she  begged  Antoine  to  take  charge  of  the  child 
until  she  was  old  enough  to  enter  the  convent  of  the  Sacr^- 
Cceur.  The  epistle  was  finished  hastily  by  another  hand,  inform- 
ing Antoine  of  Madame  Jardin's  death;  it  also  told  him  that 
Anglice  had  been  placed  on  board  a  vessel  shortly  to  leave  the 
island  for  some  Western  port. 

The  letter,  delayed  by  storm  and  shipwreck,  was  hardly  read 
and  wept  over  when  little  Anglice  arrived. 

On  beholding  her,  Antoine  uttered  a  cry  of  joy  and  surprise 
—  she  was  so  like  the  woman  he  had  worshiped. 

The  passion  that  had  been  crowded  down  in  his  heart  broke 
out  and  lavished  its  richness  on  this  child,  who  was  to  him 
not  only  the  Anglice  of  years  ago,  but  his  friend  Emile  Jardin 
also. 

Anglice  possessed  the  wild,  strange  beauty  of  her  mother — 
the  bending,  willowy  form,  the  rich  tint  of  skin,  the  large  trop- 
ical eyes,  that  had  almost  made  Antoine's  sacred  robes  a  mockery 
to  him. 

For  a  month  or  two  Anglice  was  wildly  unhappy  in  her  new 
home.  She  talked  continually  of  the  bright  country  where  she 
was  bom,  the  fruits  and  flowers  and  blue  skies,  the  tall,  fan-like 
trees,  and  the  streams  that  went  murmuring  through  them  to 
the  sea.     Antoine  could  not  pacify  her. 

By  and  by  she  ceased  to  weep,  and  went  about  the  cottage  in 
a  weary,  disconsolate  way  that  cut  Antoine  to  the  heart.  A 
long-tailed  paroquet,  which  she  had  brought  with  her  in  the  ship, 
walked  solemnly  behind  her  from  room  to  room,  mutely  pining, 
it  seemed,  for  those  heavy  orient  airs  that  used  to  ruffle  its  brill- 
iant plumage. 

Before  the  year  ended,  he  noticed  that  the  ruddy  tinge  had 
faded  from  her  cheek,  that  her  eyes  had  grown  languid,  and  her 
slight  figure  more  willowy  than  ever. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  ,20 

A  physician  was  consulted.  He  could  discover  nothing  wrong 
with  the  child,  except  this  fading  and  drooping.  He  failed  to 
account  for  that.  It  was  some  vague  disease  of  the  mind,  he 
said,  beyond  his  skill. 

So  Anglice  faded  day  after  day.  She  seldom  left  the  room 
now.  At  last  Antoine  could  not  shut  out  the  fact  that  the  child 
was  passing  away.     He  had  learned  to  love  her  so! 

**  Dear  heart, "  he  said  once,   "  What  is  't  ails  thee  ?  ® 

**  Nothing,  mon  pere,"  for  so  she  called  him. 

The  winter  passed,  the  balmy  spring  had  come  with  its  mag- 
nolia blooms  and  orange  blossoms,  and  Anglice  seemed  to  revive. 
In  her  small  bamboo  chair,  on  the  porch,  she  swayed  to  and  fro 
in  the  fragrant  breeze,  with  a  peculiar  undulating  motion,  like  a 
graceful  tree. 

At  times  something  seemed  to  weigh  upon  her  mind.  Antoine 
observed  it,  and  waited.     Finally  she  spoke. 

*^Near  our  house,*  said  little  Anglice  —  "near  our  house,  on 
the  island,  the  palm-trees  are  waving  under  the  blue  sky.  Oh, 
how  beautiful!  I  seem  to  lie  beneath  them  all  day  long.  I  am 
very,  very  happy.  I  yearned  for  them  so  much  that  I  grew  ill 
—  don't  you  think  it  was  so,  mon  pere?* 

"  Helas,  yes !  **  exclaimed  Antoine,  suddenly.  *  Let  us  hasten 
to  those  pleasant  islands  where  the  palms  are  waving.** 

Anglice  smiled.     *^  I  am  going  there,  mon  pere.* 

A  week  from  that  evening  the  wax  candles  burned  at  her 
feet  and  forehead,  lighting  her  on  the  journey. 

All  was  over.  Now  was  Antoine's  heart  empty.  Death,  like 
another  Emile,  had  stolen  his  new  Anglice.  He  had  nothing  to 
do  but  to  lay  the  blighted  flower  away. 

Pere  Antoine  made  a  shallow  grave  in  his  garden,  and  heaped 
the  fresh  brown  mold  over  his  idol. 

In  the  tranquil  spring  evenings,  the  priest  was  seen  sitting 
by  the  mound,  his  finger  closed  in  the  unread  breviary. 

The  summer  broke  on  that  sunny  land;  and  in  the  cool  morn- 
ing twilight,  and  after  nightfall,  Antoine  lingered  by  the  grave. 
He  could  never  be  with  it  enough. 

One  morning  he  observed  a  delicate  stem,  with  two  curiously 
shaped  emerald  leaves,  springing  up  from  the  centre  of  the 
mound.  At  first  he  merely  noticed  it  casually;  but  presently 
the  plant  grew  so  tall,  and  was  so  strangely  unlike  anything  he 
had  ever  seen  before,  that  he  examined  it  with  care. 


33° 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


How  Straight  and  graceful  and  exquisite  it  was!  When  it 
swung  to  and  fro  with  the  summer  wind,  in  the  twilight,  it 
seemed  to  Antoine  as  if  little  Anglice  were  standing  there  in  the 
garden. 

The  days  stole  by,  and  Antoine  tended  the  fragile  shoot, 
wondering  what  manner  of  blossom  it  would  unfold,  white,  or 
scarlet,  or  golden.  One  Sunday,  a  stranger,  with  a  bronzed, 
weather-beaten  face  like  a  sailor's,  leaned  over  the  garden  rail,  and 
said  to  him,  "What  a  fine  young  date-palm  you  have  there,  sir!** 

"  Mon  Dieu !  **  cried  Pere  Antoine  starting,  <*  and  is  it  a  palm  ?  '* 

"Yes,  indeed,**  returned  the  man.  "I  didn't  reckon  the  tree 
would  flourish  in  this  latitude.** 

"  Ah,  mon  Dieu !  **  was  all  the  priest  could  say  aloud ;  but  he 
murmured  to  himself,   "Bon  Dieu,  vous  m'avez  donne  cela!** 

If  Pere  Antoine  loved  the  tree  before,  he  worshiped  it  now. 
He  watered  it,  and  nurtured  it,  and  could  have  clasped  it  in  his 
arms.     Here  were  Emile  and  Anglice  and  the  child,   all  in  one! 

The  years  glided  away,  and  the  date-palm  and  the  priest 
grew  together  —  only  one  became  vigorous  and  the  other  feeble. 
Pfere  Antoine  had  long  passed  the  meridian  of  life.  The  tree 
was  in  its  youth.  It  no  longer  stood  in  an  isolated  garden;  for 
pretentious  brick  and  stucco  houses  had  clustered  about  Antoine 's 
cottage.  They  looked  down  scowling  on  the  humble  thatched 
roof.  The  city  was  edging  up,  trying  to  crowd  him  off  his  land. 
But  he  clung  to  it  like  lichen  and  refused  to  sell. 

Speculators  piled  gold  on  his  doorsteps,  and  he  laughed  at 
them.  Sometimes  he  was  hungry,  and  cold,  and  thinly  clad;  but 
he  laughed  none  the  less. 

"  Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan !  **  said  the  old  priest's  smile. 

Pere  Antoine  was  very  old  now,  scarcely  able  to  walk;  but 
he  could  sit  under  the  pliant,  caressing  leaves  of  his  palm,  lov- 
ing it  like  an  Arab;  and  there  he  sat  till  the  grimmest  of  specu- 
lators came  to  him.  But  even  in  death  Pere  Antoine  was 
faithful  to  his  trust:  the  owner  of  that  land  loses  it  if  he  harm 
the  date-tree. 

And  there  it  stands  in  the  narrow,  dingy  street,  a  beautiful, 
dreamy  stranger,  an  exquisite  foreign  lady  whose  grace  is  a  joy 
to  the  eye,  the  incense  of  whose  breath  makes  the  air  enamored. 
May  the  hand  wither  that  touches  her  ungently! 

*^ Because  it  grew  from  the  heart  of  little  Anglice, ^^  said  Miss 
Blondeau  tenderly. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICfl  ^^j 


MISS   MEHETABEL'S   SON 
I 

THE  OLD  TAVERN  AT  BAYLEy's  FOUR-CORNERS 

YOU  will  not  find  Greenton,  or  Bayley's  Four-Corners  as  it  is 
more  usually  designated,  on  any  map  of  New  England  that 
I  know  of.  It  is  not  a  town;  it  is  not  even  a  village:  it  is 
merely  an  absurd  hotel.  The  almost  indescribable  place  called 
Greenton  is  at  the  intersection  of  four  roads,  in  the  heart  of  New 
Hampshire,  twenty  miles  from  the  nearest  settlement  of  note,  and 
ten  miles  from  any  railway  station.  A  good  location  for  a  hotel, 
you  will  say.  Precisely;  but  there  has  always  been  a  hotel 
there,  and  for  the  last  dozen  years  it  has  been  pretty  well 
patronized  —  by  one  boarder.  Not  to  trifle  with  an  intelligent 
public,  I  will  state  at  once  that,  in  the  early  part  of  this  century, 
Greenton  was  a  point  at  which  the  mail-coach  on  the  Great 
Northern  Route  stopped  to  change  horses  and  allow  the  passen- 
gers to  dine.  People  in  the  county,  wishing  to  take  the  early 
mail  Portsmouth-ward,  put  up  over  night  at,  the  old  tavern, 
famous  for  its  irreproachable  larder  and  soft  feather-beds.  The 
tavern  at  that  time  was  kept  by  Jonathan  Bayley,  who  rivaled 
his  wallet  in  growing  corpulent,  and  in  due  time  passed  away. 
At  his  death  the  establishment,  which  included  a  farm,  fell  into 
the  hands  of  a  son-in-law.  Now,  though  Bayley  left  his  son-in- 
law  a  hotel  —  which  sounds  handsome  —  he  left  him  no  guests; 
for  at  about  the  period  of  the  old  man's  death  the  old  stage- 
coach died  also.  Apoplexy  carried  off  one,  and  steam  the  other. 
Thus,  by  a  sudden  swerve  in  the  tide  of  progress,  the  tavern  at 
the  Comers  found  itself  high  and  dry,  like  a  wreck  on  a  sand- 
bank. Shortly  after  this  event,  or  maybe  contemporaneously, 
there  was  some  attempt  to  build  a  town  at  Greenton;  but  it 
apparently  failed,  if  eleven  cellars  choked  up  with  debris  and 
overgrown  with  burdocks  are  any  indication  of  failure.  The 
farm,  however,  was  a  good  farm,  as  things  go  in  New  Hamp- 
shire, and  Tobias  Sewell,  the  son-in-law,  could  afford  to  snap 
his  fingers  at  the  traveling  public  if  they  came  near  enough  — 
which  they  never  did. 

The    hotel    remains    to-day    pretty   much    the    same    as    when 
Jonathan    Bayley    handed    in    his    accounts   in    1840,    except  that 


332 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


Sewell  has  from  time  to  time  sold  the  furniture  of  some  of  the 
upper  chambers  to  bridal  couples  in  the  neighborhood.  The  bar 
is  still  open,  and  the  parlor  door  says  Parlour  in  tall  black 
letters.  Now  and  then  a  passing  drover  looks  in  at  that  lonely 
bar-room,  where  a  high-shouldered  bottle  of  Santa  Cruz  rum 
ogles  with  a  peculiarly  knowing  air  a  shriveled  lemon  on  a 
shelf;  now  and  then  a  farmer  rides  across  country  to  talk  crops 
and  stock  and  take  a  friendly  glass  with  Tobias;  and  now  and 
then  a  circus  caravan  with  speckled  ponies,  or  a  menagerie  with 
a  soggy  elephant,  halts  under  the  swinging  sign,  on  which  there 
is  a  dim  mail-coach  with  four  phantomish  horses  driven  by  a 
portly  gentleman  whose  head  has  been  washed  off  by  the  rain. 
Other  customers  there  are  none,  except  that  one  regular  boarder 
whom  I  have  mentioned. 

If  misery  makes  a  man  acquainted  with  strange  bed-fellows, 
it  is  equally  certain  that  the  profession  of  surveyor  and  civil 
engineer  often  takes  one  into  undreamed-of  localities.  I  had 
never  heard  of  Greenton  until  my  duties  sent  me  there,  and  kept 
me  there  two  weeks  in  the  dreariest  season  of  the  year.  I  do 
not  think  I  would,  of  my  own  volition,  have  selected  Greenton 
for  a  fortnight's  sojourn  at  any  time;  but  now  the  business  is 
over,  I  shall  never  regret  the  circumstances  that  made  me  the 
guest  of  Tobias  Sewell,  and  brought  me  into  intimate  relations 
with  Miss  Mehetabel's  Son. 

It  was  a  black  October  night  in  the  year  of  grace  1872,  that 
discovered  me  standing  in  front  of  the  old  tavern  at  the  Corners. 

Though    the    ten    miles'    ride   from    K had   been   depressing, 

especially  the  last  five  miles,  on  account  of  the  cold  autumnal 
rain  that  had  set  in,  I  felt  a  pang  of  regret  on  hearing  the 
rickety  open  wagon  turn  round  in  the  road  and  roll  off  in  the 
darkness.  There  were  no  lights  visible  anywhere,  and  only  for 
the  big,  shapeless  mass  of  something  in  front  of  me,  which  the 
driver  had  said  was  the  hotel,  I  should  have  fancied  that  I  had 
been  set  down  by  the  roadside.  I  was  wet  to  the  skin  and  in 
no  amiable  humor;  and  not  being  able  to  find  bell-pull  or 
knocker,  or  even  a  door,  I  belabored  the  side  of  the  house  with 
my  heavy  walking-stick.  In  a  minute  or  two  I  saw  a  light 
flickering  somewhere  aloft,  then  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  window 
opening,  followed  by  an  exclamation  of  disgust  as  a  blast  of 
wind  extinguished  the  candle  which  had  given  me  an  instant- 
aneous picture  en  silhouette  of  a  man  leaning  out  of  a  casement. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  333 

"  I  say,  what  do  you  want,  down  there  ? "  inquired  an  unpre- 
possessing voice. 

*^l  want  to  come  in;  I  want  a  supper,  and  a  bed,  and  num- 
berless things.'* 

"This  isn't  no  time  of  night  to  go  rousing  honest  folks  out 
of  their  sleep.     Who  are  you,  anyway?" 

The  question,  superficially  considered,  was  a  very  simple  one, 
and  I,  of  all  people  in  the  world,  ought  to  have  been  able  to 
answer* it  off-hand,  but  it  staggered  me.  Strangely  enough,  there 
came  drifting  across  my  memory  the  lettering  on  the  back  of  a 
metaphysical  work  which  I  had  seen  years  before  on  a  shelf  in 
the  Astor  Library.  Owing  to  an  unpremeditatedly  funny  collo- 
cation of  title  and  author,  the  lettering  read  as  follows:  —  **Who 
am  I  ?  Jones. "  Evidently  it  had  puzzled  Jones  to  know  who 
he  was,  or  he  wouldn't  have  written  a  book  about  it,  and  come 
to  so  lame  and  impotent  a  conclusion.  It  certainly  puzzled  me 
at  that  instant  to  define  my  identity.  "Thirty  years  ago,*  I 
reflected,  "  I  was  nothing ;  fifty  years  hence  I  shall  be  nothing 
again,  humanly  speaking.  In  the  mean  time,  who  am  I,  sure 
enough  ?  *  It  had  never  before  occurred  to  me  what  an  indefinite 
article  I  was.  I  wish  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  then.  Standing 
there  in  the  rain  and  darkness,  I  wrestled  vainly  with  the  prob- 
lem, and  was  constrained  to  fall  back  upon  a  Yankee  expedient. 

"  Isn't  this  a  hotel  ?  '*  I  asked  finally. 

"Well,  it  is  a  sort  of  hotel,"  said  the  voice,  doubtfully.  My 
hesitation  and  prevarication  had  apparently  not  inspired  my  inter- 
locutor with  confidence  in  me. 

"Then   let  me   in.      I   have   just   driven   over   from   K in 

this  infernal  rain.     I  am  wet  through  and  through." 

"  But  what  do  you  want  here,  at  the  Comers  ?  What's  your 
business  ?  People  don't  come  here,  leastways  in  the  middle  of 
the  night." 

"  It  isn't  in  the  middle  of  the  night, "  I  returned,  incensed. 
"  I  come  on  business  connected  with  the  new  road.  I'm  the 
superintendent  of  the  works." 

"Oh!" 

"And  if  you  don't  open  the  door  at  once,  I'll  raise  the  whole 
neighborhood  —  and  then  go  to  the  other  hotel." 

When  I  said  that,  I  supposed  Greenton  was  a  village  with  a 
population  of  at  least  three  or  four  thousand,  and  was  wonder- 
ing vaguely  at   the   absence  of   lights  and  other  signs  of  human 


334  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

habitation.  Surely,  I  thought,  all  the  people  cannot  be  abed  and 
asleep  at  half  past  ten  o'clock:  perhaps  I  am  in  the  business 
section  of  the  town,  among  the  shops. 

**You  jest  wait,**  said  the  voice  above. 

This  request  was  not  devoid  of  a  certain  accent  of  menace, 
and  I  braced  myself  for  a  sortie  on  the  part  of  the  besieged,  if 
he  had  any  such  hostile  intent.  Presently  a  door  opened  at  the 
very  place  where  I  least  expected  a  door,  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  building,  in  fact,  and  a  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  shielding  a 
candle  with  his  left  hand,  appeared  on  the  threshold.  I  passed 
quickly  into  the  house,  with  Mr.  Tobias  Sewell  (for  this  was 
Mr.  Sewell)  at  my  heels,  and  found  myself  in  a  long,  low- 
studded  bar-room. 

There  were  two  chairs  drawn  up  before  the  hearth,  on  which 
a  huge  hemlock  back-log  was  still  smoldering,  and  on  the  un- 
painted  deal  counter  contiguous  stood  two  cloudy  glasses  with 
bits  of  lemon-peel  in  the  bottom,  hinting  at  recent  libations. 
Against  the  discolored  wall  over  the  bar  hung  a  yellowed  hand- 
bill, in  a  warped  frame,  announcing  that  **the  Next  Annual 
N.  H.  Agricultural  Fair"  would  take  place  on  the  loth  of  Sep- 
tember, 1 84 1.  There  was  no  other  furniture  or  decoration  in 
this  dismal  apartment,  except  the  cobwebs  which  festooned  the 
ceiling,  hanging  down  here  and  there  like  stalactites. 

Mr.  Sewell  set  the  candlestick  on  the  mantel-shelf,  and  threw 
some  pine-knots  on  the  fire,  which  immediately  broke  into  a 
blaze,  and  showed  him  to  be  a  lank,  narrow-chested  man,  past 
sixty,  with  sparse,  steel-gray  hair,  and  small,  deep-set  eyes,  per- 
fectly round,  like  a  fish's,  and  of  no  particular  color.  His  chief 
personal  characteristics  seemed  to  be  too  much  feet  and  not 
enough  teeth.  His  sharply  cut,  but  rather  simple  face,  as  he 
turned  it  towards  me,  wore  a  look  of  interrogation.  I  replied  to 
his  mute  inquiry  by  taking  out  my  pocket-book  and  handing  him 
my  business-card,  which  he  held  up  to  the  candle  and  perused 
with  great  deliberation. 

^^ You're  a  civil  engineer,  are  you?**  he  said,  displaying  his 
gums,  which  gave  his  countenance  an  expression  of  almost  infant- 
ile innocence.  He  made  no  further  audible  remark,  but  mum- 
bled between  his  thin  lips  something  which  an  imaginative  person 
might  have  construed  into,  **  If  you're  a  civil  engineer,  I'll  be 
blessed  if  I  wouldn't  like  to  see  an  uncivil  one !  ** 

Mr.  Sewell's  growl,  however,  was  worse  than  his  bite, — owing 
to  his  lack   of    teeth,  probably  —  for  he   very   good-naturedly  set 


THOMAS  BAJL.KY  ALDRICH 


335 


himself  to  work  preparing  supper  for  me.  After  a  slice  of  cold 
ham,  and  a  warm  punch,  to  which  my  chilled  condition  gave  a 
grateful  flavor,  I  went  to  bed  in  a  distant  chamber  in  a  most 
amiable  mood,  feeling  satisfied  that  Jones  was  a  donkey  to 
bother  himself  about  his  identity. 

When  I  awoke,  the  sun  was  several  hours  high.  My  bed 
faced  a  window,  and  by  raising  myself  on  one  elbow  I  could 
look  out  on  what  I  expected  would  be  the  main  street.  To  my 
astonishment  I  beheld  a  lonely  country  road  winding  up  a  sterile 
hill  and  disappearing  over  the  ridge.  In  a  cornfield  at  the  right 
of  the  road  was  a  small  private  graveyard,  inclosed  by  a  crum- 
bling stone  wall  with  a  red  gate.  The  only  thing  suggestive  of 
life  was  this  little  comer  lot  occupied  by  death.  I  got  out  of 
bed  and  went  to  the  other  window.  There  I  had  an  uninter- 
rupted view  of  twelve  miles  of  open  landscape,  with  Mount 
Agamenticus  in  the  purple  distance.  Not  a  house  or  a  spire  in 
sight.  "  Well, "  I  exclaimed,  ^*  Greenton  doesn't  appear  to  be  a 
very  closely  packed  metropolis ! "  That  rival  hotel  with  which  I 
had  threatened  Mr.  Sewell  overnight  was  not  a  deadly  weapon, 
looking  at  it  by  daylight.  **  By  Jove!*  I  reflected,  "maybe  I'm 
in  the  wrong  place.*  But  there,  tacked  against  a  panel  of  the 
bedroom  door,  was  a  faded  time-table  dated  Greenton,  August 
ist,   1839. 

I  smiled  all  the  time  I  was  dressing,  and  went  smiling  down- 
stairs, where  I  found  Mr.  Sewell,  assisted  by  one  of  the  fair  sex 
in  the  first  bloom  of  her  eightieth  year,  serving  breakfast  for 
me  on  a  small  table  —  in  the  bar-room! 

"  I  overslept  myself  this  morning,  *  I  remarked  apologetically, 
"and  I  see  that  I  am  putting  you  to  some  trouble.  In  future, 
if  you  will  have  me  called,  I  will  take  my  meals  at  the  usual 
tad/e  d'hote?'* 

«At  the  what?*  said  Mr.   Sewell. 

"  I  mean  with  the  other  boarders.  * 

Mr.  Sewell  paused  in  the  act  of  lifting  a  chop  from  the  fire, 
and,  resting  the  point  of  his  fork  against  the  woodwork  of  the 
mantel-piece,  grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 

"Bless  you!  there  isn't  any  other  boarders.  There  hasn't 
been  anybody  put  up  here  sence  —  let  me  see  —  sence  father-in- 
law  died,  and  that  was  in  the  fall  of  '40.  To  be  sure,  there 's 
Silas;  he'%  a  regular  boarder:  but  I  don't  count  him.* 

Mr.  Sewell  then  explained  how  the  tavern  had  lost  its  custom 
when   the   old  stage   line   was  broken  up  by  the  railroad.      The 


336 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


introduction  of  steam  was,  in  Mr.  Sewell's  estimation,  a  fatal 
error.  ^^Jest  killed  local  business.  Carried  it  off,  I'm  darned  if 
I  know  where.  The  whole  country  has  been  sort  o'  retrograding 
ever  sence  steam  was  invented.'* 

"  You  spoke  of  having  one  boarder, "'  I  said. 

"Silas?  Yes;  he  come  here  the  summer  'Tilda  died  —  she 
that  was  'Tilda  Bay  ley  —  and  he 's  here  yet,  going  on  thirteen 
year.  He  couldn't  live  any  longer  with  the  old  man.  Between 
you  and  I,  old  Clem  Jaffrey,  Silas's  father,  was  a  hard  nut. 
Yes,'*  said  Mr.  Sewell,  crooking  his  elbow  in  inimitable  panto- 
mime, *^  altogether  too  often.  Found  dead  in  the  road  hugging 
a  three-gallon  demijohn.  Habeas  corpus  in  the  barn,'*  added  Mr. 
Sewell,  intending,  I  presume,  to  intimate  that  a  post-mortem 
examination  had  been  deemed  necessary.  "Silas,"  he  resumed, 
in  that  respectful  tone  which  one  should  always  adopt  when  speak- 
ing of  capital,  "is  a  man  of  considerable  property;  lives  on  his 
interest,  and  keeps  a  hoss  and  shay.  He  's  a  great  scholar,  too, 
Silas:   takes  all  the  pe-ri-odicals  and  the  Police  Gazette  regular." 

Mr.  Sewell  was  turning  over  a  third  chop,  when  the  door 
opened  and  a  stoutish,  middle-aged  little  gentleman,  clad  in  deep 
black,  stepped  into  the  room. 

"Silas  Jaffrey,"  said  Mr.  Sewell,  with  a  comprehensive  sweep 
of  his  arm,  picking  up  me  and  the  new-comer  on  one  fork,  so  to 
speak.     "  Be  acquainted !  " 

Mr.  Jaffrey  advanced  briskly,  and  gave  me  his  hand  with 
unlooked-for  cordiality.  He  was  a  dapper  little  man,  with  a 
head  as  round  and  nearly  as  bald  as  an  orange,  and  not  unlike 
an  orange  in  complexion,  either;  he  had  twinkling  gray  eyes  and 
a  pronounced  Roman  nose,  the  numerous  freckles  upon  which 
were  deepened  by  his  funereal  dress-coat  and  trousers.  He 
reminded  me  of  Alfred  de  Musset's  blackbird,  which,  with  its 
yellow  beak  and  sombre  plumage,  looked  like  an  undertaker 
eating  an  omelet. 

"  Silas  will  take  care  of  you, "  said  Mr.  Sewell,  taking  down 
his  hat  from  a  peg  behind  the  door.  "  I've  got  the  cattle  to  look 
after.     Tell  him  if  you  want  anything." 

While  I  ate  my  breakfast,  Mr.  Jaffrey  hopped  up  and  down 
the  narrow  bar-room  and  chirped  away  as  blithely  as  a  bird  on  a 
cherry-bough,  occasionally  ruffling  with  his  fingers  a  slight  fringe 
of  auburn  hair  which  stood  up  pertly  round  his  head  and  seemed 
to  possess  a  luminous  quality  of  its  own. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


337 


**  Don't  I  find  it  a  little  slow  up  here  at  the  Comers  ?  Not  at 
all.  my  dear  sir.  I  am  in  the  thick  of  life  up  here.  So  many- 
interesting  things  going  on  all  over  the  world  —  inventions,  dis- 
coveries, spirits,  railroad  disasters,  mysterious  homicides.  Poets, 
murderers,  musicians,  statesmen,  distinguished  travelers,  prodi- 
gies of  all  kinds  turning  up  everywhere.  Very  few  events  or 
persons  escape  me.  I  take  six  daily  city  papers,  thirteen  weekly 
journals,  all  the  monthly  magazines,  and  two  quarterlies.  I 
could  not  get  along  with  less.  I  couldn't  if  you  asked  me.  I 
never  feel  lonely.  How  can  I,  being  on  intimate  terms,  as  it 
were,  with  thousands  and  thousands  of  people  ?  There's  that 
young  woman  out  West.  What  an  entertaining  creature  sJie 
is!  —  now  in  Missouri,  now  in  Indiana,  and  now  in  Minnesota, 
always  on  the  go,  and  all  the  time  shedding  needles  from  vari- 
ous parts  of  her  body  as  if  she  really  enjoyed  it!  Then  there's 
that  versatile  patriarch  who  walks  hundreds  of  miles  and  saws 
thousands  of  feet  of  wood,  before  breakfast,  and  shows  no  signs 
of  giving  out.  Then  there's  that  remarkable,  one  may  say  that 
historical  colored  woman  who  knew  Benjamin  Franklin,  and 
fought  at  the  battle  of  Bunk  —  no,  it  is  the  old  negro  man  who 
fought  at  Bunker  Hill,  a  mere  infant,  of  course,  at  that  period. 
Really,  now,  it  is  quite  curious  to  observe  how  that  venerable 
female  slave  —  formerly  an  African  princess  —  is  repeatedly  dying 
in  her  hundred  and  eleventh  year,  and  coming  to  life  again 
punctually  every  six  months  in  the  small -type  paragraphs.  Are 
you  aware,  sir,  that  within  the  last  twelve  years  no  fewer  than 
two  hundred  and  eighty-seven  of  General  Washington's  colored 
coachmen  have  died  ?  '* 

For  the  soul  of  me  I  could  not  tell  whether  this  quaint  little 
gentleman  was  chaffing  me  or  not.  I  laid  down  my  knife  and 
fork,  and  stared  at  him. 

*^  Then  there  are  the  mathematicians !  *  he  cried  vivaciously, 
without  waiting  for  a  reply.  "  I  take  great  interest  in  them. 
Hear  this !  **  and  Mr.  Jaffrey  drew  a  newspaper  from  a  pocket  in 
the  tail  of  his  coat,  and  read  as  follows:  — "//  has  been  estimated 
that  if  all  the  candles  manufactured  by  this  eminent  firm  ( Stear- 
ine  &  Co.)  were  placed  end  to  end,  they  would  reach  2  and  y-8 
times  around  the  globe.  Of  course,*  continued  Mr.  Jaffrey,  fold- 
ing up  the  journal  reflectively,  "abstruse  calculations  of  this 
kind  are  not,  perhaps,  of  vital  importance,  but  they  indicate 
the   intellectual   activity   of  the   age.      Seriously,    now,"   he   said, 


338  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

halting  in  front  of  the  table,  "what  with  books  and  papers  and 
drives  about  the  country,  I  do  not  find  the  days  too  long, 
though    I    seldom    see    any    one,    except    when     I    go    over    to 

K for  my  mail.      Existence  may  be  very  full  to  a  man  who 

stands  a  little  aside  from  the  tumult  and  watches  it  with  philo- 
sophic eye.  Possibly  he  may  see  more  of  the  battle  than  those 
who  are  in  the  midst  of  the  action.  Once  I  was  struggling  with 
the  crowd,  as  eager  and  undaunted  as  the  best;  perhaps  I  should 
have  been  struggling  still.  Indeed,  I  know  my  life  would  have 
been  very  different  now  if  I  had  married  Mehetabel  —  if  I  had 
married  Mehetabel.*^ 

His  vivacity  was  gone,  a  sudden  cloud  had  come  over  his 
bright  face,  his  figure  seemed  to  have  collapsed,  the  light 
seemed  to  have  faded  out  of  his  hair.  With  a  shuffling  step, 
the  very  antithesis  of  his  brisk,  elastic  tread,  he  turned  to  the 
door  and  passed  into  the  road. 

"  Well, ''  I  said  to  myself,  *  if  Greenton  had  forty  thousand 
inhabitants,  it  couldn't  turn  out  a  more  astonishing  old  party 
than  that!" 

II 

THE    CASE   OF   SILAS   JAFFREY 

A  MAN  with  a  passion  for  bric-ct-brac  is  always  stumbling  over 
antique  bronzes,  intaglios,  mosaics,  and  daggers  of  the  time  of 
Benvenuto  Cellini;  the  bibliophile  finds  creamy  vellum  folios 
and  rare  Alduses  and  Elzevirs  waiting  for  him  at  unsuspected 
bookstalls;  the  numismatist  has  but  to  stretch  forth  his  palm 
to  have  priceless  coins  drop  into  it.  My  own  weakness  is  odd 
people,  and  I  am  constantly  encountering  them.  It  was  plain 
that  I  had  unearthed  a  couple  of  very  queer  specimens  at 
Bayley's  Four-Corners.  I  saw  that  a  fortnight  afforded  me  too 
brief  an  opportunity  to  develop  the  richness  of  both,  and  I 
resolved  to  devote  my  spare  time  to  Mr.  Jaffrey  alone,  instinct- 
ively recognizing  in  him  an  unfamiliar  species.  My  professional 
work  in  the  vicinity  of  Greenton  left  my  evenings  and  occas- 
ionally an  afternoon  unoccupied;  these  intervals  I  purposed  to 
employ  in  studying  and  classifying  my  fellow-boarder.  It  was 
necessary,  as  a  preliminary  step,  to  learn  something  of  his 
previous  history,  and  to  this  end  I  addressed  myself  lo  Mr. 
Sewell  that  same  night. 


THOMAS   BAILEY   ALDRICH  339 

"I  do  not  want  to  seem  inquisitive/*  I  said  to  the  landlord, 
as  he  was  fastening-  up  the  bar,  which,  by  the  way,  was  the 
salle  h  manger  and  general  sitting-room  —  **  I  do  not  want  to 
seem  inquisitive,  but  your  friend  Mr.  Jaffrey  dropped  a  remark 
this  morning  at  breakfast  which  —  which  was  not  altogether 
clear  to  me.** 

*  About  Mehetabel  ?  **  asked  Mr.   Sewell,  uneasily. 
«Yes.» 

«Well,  I  wish  he  wouldn't!** 

"  He  was  friendly  enough  in  the  course  of  conversation  to 
hint  to  me  that  he  had  not  married  the  young  woman,  and 
seemed  to  regret  it.** 

**  No,  he  didn't  marry  Mehetabel.** 

"May  I  inquire  why  he  didn't  marry  Mehetabel?** 

*  Never  asked  her.     Might  have  married  thp  girl  forty  times. 

Old    Elkins's    daughter,    over    at   K .       She'd   have   had  him 

quick  enough.      Seven  years,  off  and  on,  he  kept  company  with 
Mehetabel,  and  then  she  died.** 

"  And  he  never  asked  her  ?  ** 

"  He  shilly-shallied.  Perhaps  he  didn't  think  of  it.  When 
she  was  dead  and  gone,  then  Silas  was  struck  all  of  a  heap  — 
and  that 's  all  about  it.  ** 

Obviously  Mr.  Sewell  did  not  intend  to  tell  me  anything 
more,  and  obviously  there  was  more  to  tell.  The  topic  was 
plainly  disagreeable  to  him  for  some  reason  or  other,  and  that 
unknown  reason  of  course  piqued  my  curiosity. 

As  I  was  absent  from  dinner  and  supper  that  day,  I  did  not 
meet  Mr.  Jaffrey  again  until  the  following  morning  at  break- 
fast. He  had  recovered  his  bird-like  manner,  and  was  full  of 
a  mysterious  assassination  that  had  just  taken  place  in  New 
York,  all  the  thrilling  details  of  which  were  at  his  fingers'  ends. 
It  was  at  once  comical  and  sad  to  see  this  harmless  old  gen- 
tleman, with  his  nai've,  benevolent  countenance,  and  his  thin 
hair  flaming  up  in  a  semicircle,  like  the  footlights  at  a  theatre, 
reveling  in  the  intricacies  of  the  unmentionable  deed. 

"You  come  up  to  my  room  to-night,**  he  cried,  with  horrid 
glee,  "and  I'll  give  you  my  theory  of  the  murder.  I'll  make  it 
as  clear  as  day  to  you  that  it  was  the  detective  himself  who 
fired  the  three  pistol-shots.** 

It  was  not  so  much  the  desire  to  have  this  point  elucidated 
as  to  make  a  closer  study  of  Mr.   Jaffrey  that  led  me  to  accept 


340 


THOMAS  BAILEY   ALDRICH 


his  invitation.  Mr.  Jaffrey's  bedroom  was  in  an  L  of  the 
building,  and  was  in  no  way  noticeable  except  for  the  numer- 
ous files  of  newspapers  neatly  arranged  against  the  blank 
spaces  of  the  walls,  and  a  huge  pile  of  old  magazines  which 
stood  in  one  corner,  reaching  nearly  up  to  the  ceiling,  and 
threatening  to  topple  over  each  instant,  like  the  Leaning  Tower 
at  Pisa.  There  were  green  paper  shades  at  the  windows,  some 
faded  chintz  valances  about  the  bed,  and  two  or  three  easy- 
chairs  covered  with  chintz  On  a  black-walnut  shelf  between 
the  windows  lay  a  choice  collection  of  meerschaum  and  brier- 
wood  pipes. 

Filling  one  of  the  chocolate-colored  bowls  for  me  and  an- 
other for  himself,  Mr.  JaflFrey  began  prattling;  but  not  about 
the  murder,  which  appeared  to  have  flown  out  of  his  mind.  In 
fact,  I  do  not  remember  that  the  topic  was  even  touched  upon, 
either  then  or  afterwards. 

"Cozy  nest  this,^*  said  Mr.  Jaffrey,  glancing  complacently 
over  the  apartment.  **What  is  more  cheerful,  now,  in  the  fall 
of  the  year,  than  an  open  wood-fire?  Do  you  hear  those  little 
chirps  and  twitters  coming  out  of  that  piece  of  apple-wood  ? 
Those  are  the  ghosts  of  the  robins  and  bluebirds  that  sang 
upon  the  bough  when  it  was  in  blossom  last  spring.  In  sum- 
mer whole  flocks  of  them  come  fluttering  about  the  fruit-trees 
under  the  window:  so  I  have  singing  birds  all  the  year  round. 
I  take  it  very  easy  here,  I  can  tell  you,  summer  and  winter. 
Not  much  society.  Tobias  is  not,  perhaps,  what  one  would 
term  a  great  intellectual  force,  but  he  means  well.  He 's  a 
realist  —  believes  in  coming  down  to  what  he  calls  'the  hardpan*; 
but  his  heart  is  in  the  right  place,  and  he's  very  kind  to  me. 
The  wisest  thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life  was  to  sell  out  my  grain 

business  over  at   K ,  thirteen  years  ago,  and  settle  down  at 

the  Corners.  When  a  man  has  made  a  competency,  what  does 
he  want  more  ?  Besides,  at  that  time  an  event  occurred  which 
destroyed  any  ambition  I  may  have  had.     Mehetabel  died.'* 

"  The  lady  you  were  engaged  to  ?  ** 

<*N-o,  not  precisely  engaged.  I  think  it  was  quite  under- 
stood between  us,  though  nothing  had  been  said  on  the  subject. 
Typhoid,*  added  Mr.  Jaffrey,  in  a  low  voice. 

For  several  minutes  he  smoked  in  silence,  a  vague,  troubled 
look  playing  over  his  countenance.  Presently  this  passed  away, 
and  he  fixed  his  gray  eyes  speculatively  upon  my  face. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  341 

*If  I  had  married  Mehetabel,"  said  Mr.  Jaffrey,  slowly,  and 
then  he  hesitated.  I  blew  a  ring  of  smoke  into  the  air,  and, 
resting  my  pipe  on  my  knee,  dropped  into  an  attitude  of 
attention.  "  If  I  had  married  Mehetabel,  you  know,  we  should 
have  had  —  ahem!  —  a  family." 

*Very  likely,'*  I  assented^  vastly  amused  at  this  unexpected 
turn. 

*A  Boy!*  exclaimed  Mr.  Jaffrey,  explosively. 

*By  all  means,  certainly,  a  son.* 

« Great  trouble  about  naming  the  boy.  Mehetabel's  family 
want  him  named  Elkanah  Elkins,  after  her  grandfather;  I  want 
him  named  Andrew  Jackson.  We  compromise  by  christening 
him  Elkanah  Elkins  Andrew  Jackson  Jaffrey.  Rather  a  long 
name  for  such  a  short  little  fellow,*  said  Mr.  Jaffrey,  musingly. 

*Andy  isn't  a  bad  nickname,*  I  suggested. 

« Not  at  all.  We  call  him  Andy,  in  the  family.  Somewhat 
fractious  at  first  —  colic  and  things.  I  suppose  it  is  right,  or  it 
wouldn't  be  so;  biit  the  usefulness  of  measles,  mumps,  croup, 
whooping-cough,  scarlatina,  and  fits  is  not  clear  to  the  parental 
eye.  I  wish  Andy  would  be  a  model  infant,  and  dodge  the 
whole  lot.* 

This  suppositious  child,  bom  within  the  last  few  minutes, 
was  plainly  assuming  the  proportions  of  a  reality  to  Mr.  Jaffrey. 
I  began  to  feel  a  little  uncomfortable.  I  am,  as  I  have  said,  a 
civil  engineer,  and  it  is  not  strictly  in  my  line  to  assist  at  the 
births  of  infants,  imaginary  or  otherwise.  I  pulled  away  vigor- 
ously at  the  pipe,  and  said  nothing. 

*What  large  blue  eyes  he  has,*  resumed  Mr.  Jaffrey,  after 
a  pause;  **just  like  Hetty's;  and  the  fair  hair,  too,  like  hers. 
How  oddly  certain  distinctive  features  are  handed  down  in 
families!  Sometimes  a  mouth,  sometimes  a  turn  of  the  eye- 
brow.     Wicked   little   boys  over  at   K have   now   and   then 

derisively  advised  me  to  follow  my  nose.  It  would  be  an  inter- 
esting thing  to  do.  I  should  find  my  nose  flying  about  the 
world,  turning  up  unexpectedly  here  and  there,  dodging  this 
branch  of  the  family  and  reappearing  in  that,  now  jumping 
over  one  great-grandchild  to  fasten  itself  upon  another,  and 
never  losing  its  individuality.  Look  at  Andy.  There's  Elkanah 
Elkins's  chin  to  the  life.  Andy's  chin  is  probably  older  than 
the  Pyramids.  Poor  little  thing,*  he  cried,  with  sudden  inde- 
scribable tenderness,   <*  to  lo$^  bis  mother  so  early !  *     And  Mr, 


342  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

Jaffrey's  head  sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  his  shoulders  slanted 
forward,  as  if  he  were  actually  bending  over  the  cradle  of  the 
child.  The  whole  gesture  and  attitude  was  so  natural  that  it 
startled  me.  The  pipe  slipped  from  my  fingers  and  fell  to  the 
floor. 

*Hush!*  whispered  Mr.  Jaffrey,  with  a  deprecating  motion 
of  his  hand.     "  Andy's  asleep !  '^ 

He  rose  softly  from  the  chair,  and  walking  across  the  room 
on  tiptoe,  drew  down  the  shade  at  the  window  through  which 
the  moonlight  was  streaming.  Then  he  returned  to  his  seat, 
and  remained  gazing  with  half-closed  eyes  into  the  dropping 
embers. 

I  refilled  my  pipe  and  smoked  in  profound  silence,  wonder- 
ing what  would  come  next.  But  nothing  came  next.  Mr. 
Jaffrey  had  fallen  into  so  brown  a  study  that,  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  afterwards,  when  I  wished  him  good-night  and  withdrew, 
I  do  not  think  he  noticed  my  departure. 

I  am  not  what  is  called  a  man  of  ■  imagination ;  it  is  my 
habit  to  exclude  most  things  not  capable  of  mathematical 
demonstration:  but  I  am  not  without  a  certain  psychological 
insight,  and  I  think  I  understood  Mr.  Jaffrey's  case.  I  could 
easily  imderstand  how  a  man  with  an  unhealthy,  sensitive 
nature,  overwhelmed  by  sudden  calamity,  might  take  refuge  in 
some  forlorn  place  like  this  old  tavern,  and  dream  his  life 
away.  To  such  a  man  —  brooding  forever  on  what  might  have 
been,  and  dwelling  wholly  in  the  realm  of  his  fancies — the 
actual  world  might  indeed  become  as  a  dream,  and  nothing 
seem  real  but  his  illusions.  I  dare  say  that  thirteen  years  of 
Bayley's  Four-Corners  would  have  its  effect  upon  me;  though 
instead  of  conjuring  up  golden-haired  children  of  the  Madonna, 
I  should  probably  see  gnomes  and  kobolds,  and  goblins  engaged 
in  hoisting  false  signals  and  misplacing  switches  for  midnight 
express  trains. 

«No  doubt,**  I  said  to  myself  that  night,  as  I  lay  in  bed, 
thinking  over  the  matter,  <*this  once  possible  but  now  impos- 
sible child  is  a  great  comfort  to  the  old  gentleman, — a  greater 
comfort,  perhaps,  than  a  real  son  would  be.  Maybe  Andy  will 
vanish  with  the  shades  and  mists  of  night,  he's  such  an  unsub- 
stantial infant;  but  if  he  doesn't,  and  Mr.  Jaffrey  finds  pleasure 
in  talking  to  me  about  his  son,  I  shall  humor  the  old  fellow. 
It  wouldn't  be  a  Christian  act  to  knock  over  his  harmless  fancy." 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 


343 


I  was  very  impatient  to  see  if  Mr.  Jaffrey's  illusion  would 
stand  the  test  of  daylight.  It  did.  Elkanah  Elkins  Andrew 
Jackson  Jaffrey  was,  so  to  speak,  alive  and  kicking-  the  next 
morning.  On  taking  his  seat  at  the  breakfast-table,  Mr.  Jaffrey 
whispered  to  me  that  Andy  had  had  a  comfortable  night. 

<<  Silas!  *^  said  Mr.  Sewell,  sharply,  "what  are  you  whispering 
about  ? » 

Mr.  Sewell  was  in  an  ill  humor;  perhaps  he  was  jealous 
because  I  had  passed  the  evening  in  Mr.  Jaffrey's  room;  but 
surely  Mr.  Sewell  could  not  expect  his  boarders  to  go  to  bed  at 
eight  o'clock  every  night,  as  he  did.  From  time  to  time  during 
the  meal  Mr.  Sewell  regarded  me  unkindly  out  of  the  comer  of 
his  eye,  and  in  helping  me  to  the  parsnips  he  poniarded  them 
with  quite  a  suggestive  air.  All  this,  however,  did  not  prevent 
me  from  repairing  to  the  door  of  Mr.  Jaffrey's  snuggery  when 
night  came. 

"Well,  Mr.  Jaffrey,  how's  Andy  this  evening?* 

"  Got  a  tooth ! "  cried  Mr.  Jaffrey,  vivaciously. 

«No!» 

"Yes,  he  has!  Just  through.  Give  the  nurse  a  silver  dollar. 
Standing  reward  for  first  tooth.'* 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  express  surprise  that  an 
infant  a  day  old  should  cut  a  tooth,  when  I  suddenly  recollected 
that  Richard  III.  was  bom  with  teeth.  Feeling  myself  to  be  on 
unfamiliar  ground,  I  suppressed  my  criticism.  It  was  well  I 
did  so,  for  in  the  next  breath  I  was  advised  that  half  a  year 
had  elapsed  since  the  previous  evening. 

"Andy's  had  a  hard  six  months  of  it,''  said  Mr.  Jaffrey,  with 
the  well-known  narrative  air  of  fathers.  "We've  brought  him 
up  by  hand.  His  grandfather,  by  the  way,  was  brought  up  by 
the  bottle  —  '*  and  brought  down  by  it,  too,  I  added  mentally, 
recalling  Mr.  Sewell 's  account  of  the  old  gentleman's  tragic 
end. 

Mr.  Jaffrey  then  went  on  to  give  me  a  history  of  Andy's 
first  six  months,  omitting  no  detail  however  insignificant  or 
irrelevant.  This  history  I  would  in  turn  inflict  upon  the  reader, 
if  I  were  only  certain  that  he  is  one  of  those  dreadful  parents 
who,  under  the  aegis  of  friendship,  bore  you  at  a  street-comer 
with  that  remarkable  thing  which  Freddy  said  the  other  day, 
and  insist  on  singing  to  you,  at  an  evening  party,  the  Iliad  of 
Tommy's  woes. 


244  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH 

But  to  inflict  this  enfantillagc  upon  the  unmarried  reader 
would  be  an  act  of  wanton  cruelty.  So  I  pass  over  that  part 
of  Andy's  biography,  and  for  the  same  reason  make  no  record 
of  the  next  four  or  five  interviews  I  had  with  Mr.  Jaffrey.  It 
will  be  sufficient  to  state  that  Andy  glided  from  extreme 
infancy  to  early  youth  with  astonishing  celerity  —  at  the  rate 
of  one  year  per  night,  if  I  remember  correctly;  and  —  must  I 
confess  it?  —  before  the  week  came  to  an  end,  this  invisible 
hobgoblin  of  a  boy  was  only  little  less  of  a  reality  to  me  than 
to  Mr.  Jaffrey. 

At  first  I  had  lent  myself  to  the  old  dreamer's  whim  with  a 
keen  perception  of  the  humor  of  the  thing;  but  by  and  by  I 
found  that  I  was  talking  and  thinking  of  Miss  Mehetabel's  son 
as  though  he  were  a  veritable  personage.  Mr.  Jaffrey  spoke  of 
the  child  with  such  an  air  of  conviction!  —  as  if  Andy  were 
playing  among  his  toys  in  the  next  room,  or  making  mud- 
pies  down  in  the  yard.  In  "these  conversations,  it  should  be 
observed,  the  child  was  never  supposed  to  be  present,  except 
on  that  single  occasion  when-  Mr.  Jaffrey  leaned  over  the 
cradle.  After  one  of  our  stances  I  would  lie  awake  until  the 
small  hours,  thinking  of  the  boy,  and  then  fall  asleep  only  to 
have  indigestible  dreams  about  him.  Through  the  day,  and 
sometimes  in  the  midst  of  complicated  calculations,  I  would 
catch  myself  wondering  what  Andy  was  up  to  now!  There  was 
no  shaking  him  off;  he  became  an  inseparable  nightmare  to  me; 
and  I  felt  that  if  I  remained  much  longer  at  Bayley's  Four- 
Corners  I  should  turn  into  just  such  another  bald-headed,  mild- 
eyed  visionary  as  Silas  Jaffrey. 

Then  the  tavern  was  a  grewsome  old  shell  any  way,  full  of 
unaccountable  noises  after  dark  —  rustlings  of  garments  along 
unfrequented  passages,  and  stealthy  footfalls  in  unoccupied 
chambers  overhead.  I  never  knew  of  an  old  house  without 
these  mysterious  noises.  Next  to  my  bedroom  was  a  musty, 
dismantled  apartment,  in  one  comer  of  which,  leaning  against 
the  wainscot,  was  a  crippled  mangle,  with  its  iron  crank  tilted 
in  the  air  like  the  elbow  of  the  late  Mr.  Clem  Jaffrey.  Some- 
times, 

<'In  the  dead  vast  and  middle  of  the  night,* 

I  used  to  hear  sounds   as   if   some  one  were  turning   that   rusty 
crank    on    the    sly.       This    occurred    only    on    particularly    cold 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  245 

nights,  and  I  conceived  the  uncomfortable  idea  that  it  was  the 
thin  family  ghosts,  from  the  neglected  graveyard  in  the  corn- 
field, keeping  themselves  warm  by  running  each  other  through 
the  mangle.  There  was  a  haunted  air  about  the  whole  place 
that  made  it  easy  for  me  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  a  phan- 
tasm like  Miss  Mehetabel's  son,  who,  after  all,  was  less  un- 
earthly than  Mr.  Jaffrey  himself,  and  seemed  more  properly  an 
inhabitant  of  this  globe  than  the  toothless  ogre  who  kept  the 
inn,  not  to  mention  the  silent  Witch  of  Endor  that  cooked  our 
meals  for  us  over  the  bar-room  fire. 

In  spite  of  the  scowls  and  winks  bestowed  upon  me  by  Mr. 
Sewell,  who  let  slip  no  opportunity  to  testify  his  disapprobation 
of  the  intimacy,  Mr,  Jaffrey  and  I  spent  all  our  evenings  to- 
gether—  those  long  autumnal  evenings,  through  the  length  of 
which  he  talked  about  the  boy,  laying  out  his  path  in  life  and 
hedging  the  path  with  roses.  He  should  be  sent  to  the  High 
School  at  Portsmouth,  and  then  to  college;  he  should  be  edu- 
cated like  a  gentleman,  Andy. 

"When  the  old  man  dies,'*  remarked  Mr,  Jaffrey  one  night, 
rubbing  his  hands  gleefully,  as  if  it  were  a  great  joke,  "Andy 
will  find  that  the  old  man  has  left  him  a  pretty  plum.'* 

"  What  do  you  think  of  having  Andy  enter  West  Point,  when 
he's  old  enough  ?  **  said  Mr.  Jaffrey  on  another  occasion.  "  He 
needn't  necessarily  go  into  the  army  when  he  graduates;  he  can 
become  a  civil  engineer.* 

This  was  a  stroke  of  flattery  so  delicate  and  indirect  that 
I  could  accept  it  without  immodesty. 

There  had  lately  sprung  up  on  the  corner  of  Mr.  Jaffrey's 
bureau  a  small  tin  house,  Gothic  in  architecture  and  pink  in 
color,  with  a  slit  in  the  roof,  and  the  word  Bank  painted  on 
one  facade.  Several  times  in  the  course  of  an  evening  Mr 
Jaffrey  would  rise  from  his  chair  without  interrupting  the  con- 
versation, and  gravely  drop  a  nickel  into  the  scuttle  of  the 
bank.  It  was  pleasant  to  observe  the  solemnity  of  his  counte- 
nance as  he  approached  the  edifice,  and  the  air  of  triumph  with 
which  he  resumed  his  seat  by  the  fireplace.  One  night  I  missed 
the  tin  bank.  It  had  disappeared,  deposits  and  all,  like  a  real 
bank.  Evidently  there  had  been  a  defalcation  on  rather  a  large 
scale.  I  strongly  suspected  that  Mr.  Sewell  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it,  but  my  suspicion  was  not  shared  by  Mr.  Jaffrey,  who, 
remarking  my  glance  at  the  bureau,  became  suddenly  depressed 


346 


THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH 


*  I'm  afraid,^*  he  said,  ^Hhat  I  have  failed  to  instill  into  Andrew 
those  principles  of  integrity  which  —  which  —  **  and  the  old  gen- 
tleman quite  broke  down, 

Andy  was  now  eight  or  nine  years  old,  and  for  some  time 
past,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  had  given  Mr.  Jaffrey  no  incon- 
siderable trouble;  what  with  his  impishness  and  his  illnesses,  the 
boy  led  the  pair  of  us  a  lively  dance.  I  shall  not  soon  forget 
the  anxiety  of  Mr.  Jaifrey  the  night  Andy  had  the  scarlet-fever 
—  an  anxiety  which  so  infected  me  that  I  actually  returned  to 
the  tavern  the  following  afternoon  earlier  than  usual,  dreading 
to  hear  that  the  little  spectre  was  dead,  and  greatly  relieved  on 
meeting  Mr.  Jaffrey  at  the  door-step  with  his  face  wreathed  in 
smiles.  When  I  spoke  to  him  of  Andy,  I  was  made  aware  that 
I  was  inquiring  into  a  case  of  scarlet-fever  that  had  occurred 
the  year  before! 

It  was  at  this  time,  towards  the  end  of  my  second  week  at 
Greenton,  that  I  noticed  what  was  probably  not  a  new  trait  — 
Mr.  Jaffrey's  curious  sensitiveness  to  atmospherical  changes.  He 
was  as  sensitive  as  a  barometer.  The  approach  of  a  storm 
sent  his  mercury  down  instantly.  When  the  weather  was  fair 
he  was  hopeful  and  sunny,  and  Andy's  prospects  were  brilliant. 
When  the  weather  was  overcast  and  threatening  he  grew  rest- 
less and  despondent,  and  was  afraid  that  the  boy  was  not  going 
to  turn  out  well. 

On  the  Saturday  previous  to  my  departure,  which  had  been 
fixed  for  Monday,  it  rained  heavily  all  the  afternoon,  and  that 
night  Mr.  Jaffrey  was  in  an  unusually  excitable  and  unhappy 
frame  of  mind.     His  mercury  was  very  low  indeed. 

^^  That  boy  is  going  to  the  dogs  just  as  fast  as  he  can  go,  '* 
said  Mr.  Jaffrey,  with  a  woeful  face.  "  I  can't  do  anything  with 
him.» 

^^  He'll  come  out  all  right,  Mr.  Jaffrey.  Boys  will  be  boys. 
I  would  not  give  a  snap  for  a  lad  without  animal  spirits.'^ 

"But  animal  spirits,"  said  Mr.  Jaffrey  sententiously,  *  shouldn't 
saw  off  the  legs  of  the  piano  in  Tobias's  best  parlor.  I  don't 
know  what  Tobias  will  say  when  he  finds  it  out." 

"  What !  has  Andy  sawed  off  the  legs  of  the  old  spinet  ? "  I 
returned,  laughing. 

"Worse  than  that." 

"  Played  upon  it,  then !  * 

*No,  sir.     He  has  lied  to  me!* 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  347 

"I  can't  believe  that  of  Andy.'* 

<<Lied  to  me,  sir/*  repeated  Mr.  Jaffrey,  severely.  "He 
pledged  me  his  word  of  honor  that  he  would  give  over  his 
climbing.  The  way  that  boy  climbs  sends  a  chill  down  my 
spine.  This  morning,  notwithstanding  his  solemn  promise,  he 
shinned  up  the  lightning-rod  attached  to  the  extension,  and  sat 
astride  the  ridge-pole.  I  saw  him,  and  he  denied  it!  When  a 
boy  you  have  caressed  and  indulged  and  lavished  pocket-money 
on  lies  to  you  and  will  climb,  then  there's  nothing  more  to  be 
said.     He's  a  lost  child." 

*•'•  You  take  too  dark  a  view  of  it,  Mr.  Jaffrey.  Training  and 
education  are  bound  to  tell  in  the  end,  and  he  has  been  well 
brought  up.** 

"  But  I  didn't  bring  him  up  on  a  lightning-rod,  did  I  ?  If 
he  is  ever  going  to  know  how  to  behave,  he  ought  to  know 
now.     To-morrow  he  will  be  eleven  years  old.** 

The  reflection  came  to  me  that  if  Andy  had  not  been 
brought  up  by  the  rod,  he  had  certainly  been  brought  up  by 
the  lightning.     He  was  eleven  years  old  in  two  weeks! 

I  essayed,  with  that  perspicacious  wisdom  which  seems  to  be 
the  peculiar  property  of  bachelors  and  elderly  maiden  ladies,  to 
tranquillize  Mr.  Jaffrey 's  mind,  and ^ to  give  him  some  practical 
hints  on  the  management  of  youth. 

*  Spank  him,  **  I  suggested  at  last. 

*  I  will !  **  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"And  you'd  better  do  it  at  once!**  I  added,  as  it  flashed 
upon  me  that  in  six  months  Andy  would  be  a  hundred  and 
forty- three  years  old!  —  an  age  at  which  parental  discipline 
would  have  to  be  relaxed. 

The  next  morning,  Sunday,  the  rain  came  down  as  if  deter- 
mined to  drive  the  quicksilver  entirely  out  of  my  poor  friend. 
Mr.  Jaffrey  sat  bolt  upright  at  the  breakfast-table,  looking  as 
woe-begone  as  a  bust  of  Dante,  and  retired  to  his  chamber  the 
moment  the  meal  was  finished.  As  the  day  advanced,  the  wind 
veered  round  to  the  northeast,  and  settled  itself  down  to  work. 
It  was  not  pleasant  to  think,  and  I  tried  not  to  think,  what 
Mr.  Jaffrey's  condition  would  be  if  the  weather  did  not  mend 
its  manners  by  noon;  but  so  far  from  clearing  off  at  noon,  the 
storm  increased  in  violence,  and  as  night  set  in,  the  wind 
whistled  in  a  spiteful  falsetto  key,  and  the  rain  lashed  the  old 
tavern   as  if    it  were  a  balky  horse  that  refused  to  move   on. 


348  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  ' 

The  windows  rattled  in  the  worm-eaten  frames,  and  the  doors 
of  remote  rooms,  where  nobody  ever  went,  slammed  to  in  the 
maddest  way.  Now  and  then  the  tornado,  sweeping  down  the 
side  of  Mount  Agamenticus,  bowled  across  the  open  country,  and 
struck  the  ancient  hostelry  point-blank. 

Mr.  Jaffrey  did  not  appear  at  supper.  I  knew  that  he  was 
expecting  me  to  come  to  his  room  as  usual,  and  I  turned  over 
in  my  mind  a  dozen  plans  to  evade  seeing  him  that  night.  The 
landlord  sat  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  chimney-place,  with  his 
eye  upon  me.  I  fancy  he  was  aware  of  the  effect  of  this  storm 
on  his  other  boarder;  for  at  intervals,  as  the  wind  hurled  itself 
against  the  exposed  gable,  threatening  to  burst  in  the  windows, 
Mr.  Sewell  tipped  me  an  atrocious  wink,  and  displayed  his 
gums  in  a  way  he  had  not  done  since  the  morning  after  my 
arrival  at  Greenton.  I  wondered  if  he  suspected  anything  about 
Andy.  There  had  been  odd  times  during  the  past  week  when 
I  felt  convinced  that  the  existence  of  Miss  Mehetabel's  son  was 
no  secret  to  Mr.  Sewell. 

In  deference  to  the  gale,  the  landlord  sat  up  half  an  hour 
later  than  was  his  custom.  At  half-past  eight  he  went  to 
bed,  remarking  that  he  thought  the  old  pile  would  stand  till 
morning. 

He  had  been  absent  only  a  few  minutes  when  I  heard  a 
rustling  at  the  door.  I  looked  up,  and  beheld  Mr.  Jaffrey 
standing  on  the  threshold,  with  his  dress  in  disorder,  his  scant 
hair  flying,  and  the  wildest  expression  on  his  face. 

"  He's  gone !  *  cried  Mr.  Jaffrey. 

"Who?     Sewell?     Yes,  he  just  went  to  bed.* 

«No,  not  Tobias  — the  boy!» 

"  What,  run  away  ?  ** 

"No  —  he  is  dead!  He  has  fallen  from  a  step-ladder  in  the 
red  chamber  and  broken  his  neck !  *^ 

Mr.  Jaffrey  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of  despair, 
and  disappeared.  I  followed  him  through  the  hall,  saw  him  go 
into  his  own  apartment,  and  heard  the  bolt  of  the  door  drawn 
to.  Then  I  returned  to  the  bar-room,  and  sat  for  an  hour  or 
two  in  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  fire,  brooding  over  the  strange 
experience  of  the  last  fortnight. 

On  my  way  to  bed  I  paused  at  Mr.  Jaffrey's  door,  and  in 
a  lull  of  the  storm,  the  measured  respiration  within  told  me 
that  the  old  gentleman  was  sleeping  peacefully. 


THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH  340 

Slumber  was  coy  with  me  that  night.  I  lay  listening  to  the 
soughing  of  the  wind,  and  thinking  of  Mr.  Jaffrey's  illusion. 
It  had  amused  me  at  first  with  its  grotesqueness ;  but  now  the 
poor  little  phantom  was  dead,  I  was  conscious  that  there  had 
been  something  pathetic  in  it  all  along.  Shortly  after  mid- 
night the  wind  sunk  down,  coming  and  going  fainter  and 
fainter,  floating  around  the  eaves  of  the  tavern  with  an  undulat- 
ing, murmurous  sound,  as  if  it  were  turning  itself  into  soft 
wings  to  bear  away  the  spirit  of  a  little  child. 

Perhaps  nothing  that  happened  during  my  stay  at  Bayley's 
Four-Corners  took  me  so  completely  by  surprise  as  Mr.  Jaffrey's 
radiant  countenance  the  next  morning.  The  morning  itself  was 
not  fresher  or  sunnier.  His  round  face  literally  shone  with 
geniality  and  happiness.  His  eyes  twinkled  like  diamonds,  and 
the  magnetic  light  of  his  hair  was  turned  on  full.  He  came 
into  my  room  while  I  was  packing  my  valise.  He  chirped,  and 
prattled,  and  caroled,  and  was  sorry  I  was  going  away  —  but 
never  a  word  about  Andy.  However,  the  boy  had  probably 
been  dead  several  years  then  I 

The  open  wagon  that  was  to  carry  me  to  the  station  stood  at 
the  door;  Mr.  Sewell  was  placing  my  case  of  instruments  under 
the  seat,  and  Mr.  Jaffrey  had  gone  up  to  his  room  to  get  me  a 
certain  newspaper  containing  an  account  of  a  remarkable  ship- 
wreck on  the  Auckland  Islands.  I  took  the  opportunity  to 
thank  Mr.  Sewell  for  his  courtesies  to  me,  and  to  express  my 
regret  at  leaving  him  and  Mr.  Jaffrey. 

"I  have  become  very  much  attached  to  Mr,  Jaffrey,"  I  said; 
"he  is  a  most  interesting  person;  but  that  hypothetical  boy  of 
his,  that  son  of  Miss  Mehetabel's  —  ® 

"Yes,  I  know!"  interrupted  Mr,  Sewell,  testily.  "Fell  off  a 
step-ladder  and  broke  his  dratted  neck.  Eleven  year  old,  wasn't 
he  ?  Always  does,  jest  at  that  point.  Next  week  Silas  will 
begin  the  whole  thing  over  again,  if  he  can  get  anybody  to 
listen  to  him." 

"  I  see.     Our  amiable  friend  is  a  little  queer  on  that  subject. " 

Mr.  Sewell  glanced  cautiously  over  his  shoulder,  and  tapping 
himself  significantly  on  the  forehead,  said  in  a  low  voice, — 

"Room  To  Let  — Unfurnished!" 

The  foregoing  selections  are  copyrighted,  and  are  reprinted  by  permission  of 
the  author,  and  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  publishers 


35° 

ALEARDO    ALEARDI 

(1812-1878) 

'he  Italian  patriot  and  poet,  Aleardo  Aleardi,  was  born  in  the 
village  of  San  Giorgio,  near  Verona,  on  November  4th,  18 12. 
He  passed  his  boyhood  on  his  father's  farm,  amid  the 
grand  scenery  of  the  valley  of  the  Adige,  which  deeply  impressed 
itself  on  his  youthful  imagination  and  left  its  traces  in  all  his  verse. 
He  went  to  school  at  Verona,  where  for  his  dullness  he  was  nick- 
named the  <*mole,'*  and  afterwards  he  passed  on  to  the  University  of 
Padua  to  study  law,  apparently  to  please  his  father,  for  in  the 
charming  autobiography  prefixed  to  his  collected  poems  he  quotes 
his  father  as  saying:  —  "My  son,  be  not  enamored  of  this  coquette. 
Poesy;  for  with  all  her  airs  of  a  great  lady,  she  will  play  thee  some 
trick  of  a  faithless  grisette.  Choose  a  good  companion,  as  one  might 
say,  for  instance  the  law:  and  thou  wilt  found  a  family;  wilt  par- 
take of  God's  bounties;  wilt  be  content  in  life,  and  die  quietly  and 
happily. ^^  In  addition  to  satisfying  his  father,  the  young  poet  also 
wrote  at  Padua  his  first  political  poems.  And  this  brought  him 
into  slight  conflict  with  the  authorities.  He  practiced  law  for  a 
short  time  at  Verona,  and  wrote  his  first  long  poem,  <Arnaldo,*  pub- 
lished in  1842,  which  was  very  favorably  received.  When  six  years 
later  the  new  Venetian  republic  came  into  being,  Aleardi  was  sent 
to  represent  its  interests  at  Paris.  The  speedy  overthrow  of  the  new 
Stiate  brought  the  young  ambassador  home  again,  and  for  the  next 
ten  years  he  worked  for  Italian  unity  and  freedom.  He  was  twice 
imprisoned,  at  Mantua  in  1852,  and  again  in  1859  at  Verona,  where 
he  died  April  17th,   1878. 

Like  most  of  the  Italian  poets  of  this  century,  Aleardi  found  his 
chief  inspiration  in  the  exciting  events  that  marked  the  struggle  of 
Italy  for  independence,  and  his  best  work  antedated  the  peace  of 
Villafranca.  His  first  serious  effort  was  *■  Le  Prime  Storie  *  (The  Pri- 
mal Histories),  written  in  1845.  In  this  he  traces  the  story  of  the 
human  race  from  the  creation  through  the  Scriptural,  classical,  and 
feudal  periods  down  to  the  present  century,  and  closes  with  fore- 
shadowings  of  a  peaceful  and  happy  future.  It  is  picturesque,  full  of 
lofty  imagery  and  brilliant  descriptive  passages. 

^  Una  Ora  della  mia  Giovinezza^  (An  Hour  of  My  Youth:  1858) 
recounts  many  of  his  youthful  trials  and  disappointments  as  a  patriot. 
Like  the  ^  Primal  Histories, '  this  poem  is  largely  contemplative  and 
philosophical,  and  shines  by  the  same  splendid  diction  and  luxuri- 
ous imagery;   but  it  is  less  wide-reaching  in   its   interests   and  more 


ALEARDO  ALEARDI  35  I 

specific  in  its  appeal  to  his  own  countrymen.  And  from  this  time 
onward  the  patriotic  qualities  in  Aleardi's  poetrj'-  predominate,  and 
his  themes  become  more  and  more  exclusively  Italian.  The  *  Monte 
Circello*  sings  the  glories  and  events  of  the  Italian  land  and  history, 
and  successfully  presents  many  facts  of  science  in  poetic  form,  while 
the  singer  passionately  laments  the  present  condition  of  Italy.  In 
<  Le  Citta  Italiane  Marinore  e  Commercianti  *  (The  Marine  and  Com- 
mercial Cities  of  Italy)  the  story  of  the  rise,  flourishing,  and  fall  of 
Venice,  Florence,  Pisa,  and  Genoa  is  recounted.  His  other  note- 
worthy poems  are  ^Rafaello  e  la  Fomarina,*  <  Le  Tre  Fiume  *  (The 
Three  Rivers),  '  Le  Tre  Fanciulle  >  (The  Three  Maidens:  1858),  <I  Sette 
Soldati>  (The  Seven  Soldiers:  1859),  and  <  Canto  Politico  >  (Political 
Songs:  1862). 

A  slender  volume  of  five  hundred  pages  contains  all  that  Aleardi 
has  written.  Yet  he  is  one  of  the  chief  minor  Italian  poets  of  this 
century,  because  of  his  loftiness  of  purpose  and  felicity  of  expression, 
his  tenderness  of  feeling,  and  his  deep  sympathies  with  his  struggling 
country. 

*He  has,*  observes  Howells  in  his  < Modern  Italian  Poets,*  "in 
greater  degree  than  any  other  Italian  poet  of  this,  or  perhaps  of  any 
age,  those  merits  which  our  English  taste  of  this  time  demands, — 
quickness  of  feeling  and  brilliancy  of  expression.  He  lacks  simplicity 
of  idea,  and  his  style  is  an  opal  which  takes  all  lights  and  hues, 
rather  than  the  crystal  which  lets  the  daylight  colorlessly  through. 
He  is  distinguished  no  less  by  the  themes  he  selects  than  by  the 
expression  he  gives  them.  In  his  poetry  there  is  passion,  but  his 
subjects  are  usually  those  to  which  love  is  accessory  rather  than 
essential;  and  he  cares  better  to  sing  of  universal  and  national  des- 
tinies as  they  concern  individuals,  than  the  raptures  and  anguishes 
of  youthful  individuals  as  they  concern  mankind."  He  was  original 
in  his  way;  his  attitude  toward  both  the  classic  and  the  romantic 
schools  is  shown  in  the  following  passage  from  his  autobiog^raphy, 
which  at  the  same  time  brings  out  his  patriotism.     He  says:  — 

« It  seemed  to  me  strange,  on  the  one  hand,  that  people  who,  in  their 
serious  moments  and  in  the  recesses  of  their  hearts,  invoked  Christ,  should 
in  the  recesses  of  their  minds,  in  the  deep  excitement  of  poetry-,  persist  in 
invoking  Apollo  and  Pallas  Minerva.  It  seemed  to  me  strange,  on  the  other 
hand,  that  people  bom  in  Italy,  with  this  sun,  with  these  nights,  with  so 
many  glories,  so  many  gn:iefs,  so  many  hopes  at  home,  should  have  the  mania 
of  singing  the  mists  of  Scandinavia,  and  the  Sabbaths  of  witches,  and 
should  go  mad  for  a  gloomy  and  dead  feudalism,  which  had  come  from  the 
North,  the  highway  of  our  misfortunes.  It  seemed  to  me,  moreover,  that 
every  Art  of  Poetry  was  marv'^elously  useless,  and  that  certain  rules  were 
mummies  embalmed  by  the  hand  of  pedants.  In  fine,  it  seemed  to  me  that 
there  were  two  kiods  of  Art:   the  one,  serene  with  an  Olympic  serenity,  the 


352 


ALEARDO  ALEARDI 


Art  of  all  ages  that  belongs  to  no  country;  the  other,  more  impassioned,  that 
has  its  roots  in  one's  native  soil.  .  .  .  The  first  that  of  Homer,  of  Phidias, 
of  Virgil,  of  Tasso;  the  other  that  of  the  Prophets,  of  Dante,  of  Shakespeare, 
of  Byron.  And  I  have  tried  to  cling  to  this  last,  because  I  was  pleased  to 
see  how  these  great  men  take  the  clay  of  their  own  land  and  their  own  time, 
and  model  from  it  a  living  statue,  which  resembles  their  contemporaries. » 

In  another  interesting  passage  he  explains  that  his  old  drawing- 
master  had  in  vain  pleaded  with  the  father  to  make  his  son  a  painter, 
and  he  continues:  — 

«Not  being  allowed  to  use  the  pencil,  I  have  used  the  pen.  And  pre- 
cisely on  this  account  my  pen  resembles  too  much  a  pencil;  precisely  on  this 
account  I  am  often  too  much  of  a  naturalist,  and  am  too  fond  of  losing 
myself  in  minute  details.  I  am  as  one  who  in  walking  goes  leisurely  along, 
and  stops  every  minute  to  observe  the  dash  of  light  that  breaks  through  the 
trees  of  the  woods,  the  insect  that  alights  on  his  hand,  the  leaf  that  falls  on 
his  head,  a  cloud,  a  wave,  a  streak  of  smoke;  in  fine,  the  thousand  accidents 
that  make  creation  so  rich,  so  various,  so  poetical,  and  beyond  which  we  ever- 
more catch  glimpses  of  that  grand  mysterious  something,  eternal,  immense, 
benignant,  and  never  inhuman  nor  cruel,  as  some  would  have  us  believe, 
which  is  called  God.» 

The  selections  are  from  Howells's  < Modern   Italian  Poets,>  copyright  1887,  by 

Harper  and  Brothers 

COWARDS 

IN  THE  deep  circle  of  Siddim  hast  thou  seen. 
Under  the  shining  skies  of  Palestine, 
The  sinister  glitter  of  the  Lake  of  Asphalt? 
Those  coasts,  strewn  thick  with  ashes  of  damnation, 
Forever  foe  to  every  living  thing. 
Where  rings  the  cry  of  the  lost  wandering  bird 
That  on  the  shore  of  the  perfidious  sea 
Athirsting  dies, — that  watery  sepulchre 
Of  the  five  cities  of  iniquity. 

Where  even  the  tempest,  when  its  clouds  hang  low. 
Passes  in  silence,  and  the  lightning  dies, — 
If  thou  hast  seen  them,  bitterly  hath  been 
Thy  heart  wrung  with  the  misery  and  despair 
Of  that  dread  vision! 

Yet  there  is  on  earth 
A  woe  more  desperate  and  miserable, — 
A  spectacle  wherein  the  wrath  of  God 
Avenges  Him  more  terribly.     It  is 
A  vain,  weak  people  of  faint-heart  old  men, 
That,  for  three  hundred  years  of  dull  repose. 


-23 


ALEARDO  ALEARDI  3SS 

Has  lain  perpetual  dreamer,  folded  in 
The  ragged  purple  of  its  ancestors, 
Stretching  its  limbs  wide  in  its  country's  sun. 
To  warm  them;  drinking  the  soft  airs  of  autumn 
Forgetful,  on  the  fields  where  its  forefathers 
Like  lions  fought!     From  overflowing  hands. 
Strew  we  with  hellebore  and  poppies  thick 
The  way. 

From  <  The  Primal  Histories.> 


THE  HARVESTERS 

WHAT  time  in  summer,  sad  with  so  much  light. 
The  sun  beats  ceaselessly  upon  the  fields; 
The  harvesters,  as  famine  urges  them, 
Draw  hitherward  in  thousands,  and  they  wear 
The  look  of  those  that  dolorously  go 
In  exile,  and  already  their  brown  eyes 
Are  heavy  with  the  poison  of  the  air. 
Here  never  note  of  amorous  bird  consoles 
Their  drooping  hearts;   here  never  the  gay  songs 
Of  their  Abruzzi  sound  to  gladden  these 
Pathetic  hands.     But  taciturn  they  toil. 
Reaping  the  harvests  for  their  unknown  lords; 
And  when  the  weary  labor  is  performed. 
Taciturn  they  retire;  and  not  till  then 
Their  bagpipes  crown  the  joys  of  the  return. 
Swelling  the  heart  with  their  familiar  strain. 
Alas!  not  all  return,  for  there  is  one 
That  dying  in  the  furrow  sits,  and  seeks 
With  his  last  look  some  faithful  kinsman  out. 
To  give  his  life's  wage,  that  he  carry  it 
Unto  his  trembling  mother,  with  the  last 
Words  of  her  son  that  comes  no  more.     And  dying. 
Deserted  and  alone,  far  off  he  hears 
His  comrades  going,  with  their  pipes  in  time. 
Joyfully  measuring  their  homeward  steps. 
And  when  in  after  years  an  orphan  comes 
To  reap  the  harvest  here,  and  feels  his  blade 
Go  quivering  through  the  swaths  of  falling  grain. 
He  weeps  and  thinks  —  haply  these  heavy  stalks 
Ripened  on  his  unburied  father's  bones. 

From  <  Monte  Circella* 


354  ALEARDO  ALEARDI 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  YEAR 


ERE  yet  upon  the  unhappy  Arctic  lands, 
In  dying  autumn,  Erebus  descends 
With  the  night's  thousand  hours,  along  the  verge 
Of  the  horizon,  like  a  fugitive, 
Through  the  long  days  wanders  the  weary  sun; 
And  when  at  last  under  the  wave  is  quenched 
The  last  gleam  of  its  golden  countenance, 
Interminable  twilight  land  and  sea 
Discolors,  and  the  north  wind  covers  deep 
All  things  in  snow,  as  in  their  sepulchres 
The  dead  are  buried.     In  the  distances 
The  shock  of  warring  Cyclades  of  ice 
Makes  music  as  of  wild  and  strange  lament; 
And  up  in  heaven  now  tardily  are  lit 
The  solitary  polar  star  and  seven 
Lamps  of  the  bear.     And  now  the  warlike  race 
Of  swans  gather  their  hosts  upon  the  breast 
Of  some  far  gulf,  and,  bidding  their  farewell 
To  the  white  cliffs  and  slender  junipers. 
And  sea-weed  bridal-beds,  intone  the  song 
Of  parting,  and  a  sad  metallic  clang 
Send  through  the  mists.     Upon  their  southward  way 
They  greet  the  beryl-tinted  icebergs;  greet 
Flamy  volcanoes  and  the  seething  founts 
Of  geysers,  and  the  melancholy  yellow 
Of  the  Icelandic  fields;  and,  wearying 
Their  lily  wings  amid  the  boreal  lights, 
Journey  away  unto  the  joyous  shores 
Of  morning. 

From  <An  hour  of  My  Youth.- 


355 


JEAN   LE  ROND   D'ALEMBERT 

(I 7 I 7-1 783) 

Jean  le  Rond  D'Alembert,  one  of  the  most  noted  of  the 
<*  Encyclopedists,"  a  mathematician  of  the  first  order,  and 
an  eminent  man  of  letters,  was  bom  at  Paris  in  17 17.  The 
unacknowleged  son  of  the  Chevalier  Destouches  and  of  Mme.  de  Ten- 
cin,  he  had  been  exposed  on  the  steps  of  the  chapel  St.  Jean-le-Rond, 
near  Notre-Dame.  He  was  named  after  the  place  where  he  was 
found;  the  stimame  of  D'Alembert  being  added  by  himself  in  later 
years.  He  was  given  into  the  care  of  the  wife  of  a  glazier,  who 
brought  him  up  tenderly  and  whom  he 
never  ceased  to  venerate  as  his  true 
mother.  His  anonymous  father,  however, 
partly  supported  him  by  an  annual  in- 
come of  twelve  hundred  francs.  He  was 
educated  at  the  college  Mazarin,  and  sur- 
prised his  Jansenist  teachers  by  his  brill- 
iance and  precocity.  They  believed  him 
to  be  a  second  Pascal;  and,  doubtless  to 
complete  the  analogy,  drew  his  attention 
away  from  his  theological  studies  to  ge- 
ometry. But  they  calculated  without  their 
host;  for  the  young  student  suddenly 
found  out  his  genius,  and  mathematics 
and  the  exact  sciences  henceforth  became 

his  absorbing  interests.  He  studied  successively  law  and  medicine, 
but  finding  no  satisfaction  in  either  of  these  professions,  with  the 
true  instincts  of  the  scholar  he  chose  poverty  with  liberty  to  pur- 
sue the  studies  he  loved.  He  astonished  the  scientific  world  by  his 
first  published  works,  <  Memoir  on  the  Integral  Calculus*  (i739)  and 
*0n  the  Refraction  of  Solid  Bodies*  (1741);  and  while  not  yet  twenty- 
four  years  old,  the  brilliant  young  mathematician  was  made  a  member 
of  the  French  Academy  of  Sciences.  In  1754  he  entered  the  Acade- 
mic Frangaise,  and  eighteen  years  later  became  its  perpetual  secretary. 
D'Alembert  wrote  many  and  important  works  on  physics  and 
mathematics.  One  of  these,  *  Memoir  on  the  General  Cause  of 
Winds,*  carried  away  a  prize  from  the  Academy  of  Sciences  of 
Berlin,  in  1746,  and  its  dedication  to  Frederick  II.  of  Prussia  won  him 
the  friendship  of  that  monarch.  But  his  claims  to  a  place  in  French 
literature,  leaving    aside    his    eulogies    on   members    of    the    French 


D'Alembert. 


2^6  JEAN  LE   ROND  D'ALEMBERT 

Academy  deceased  between  1700  and  1772,  are  based  chiefly  on  his 
writings  in  connection  with  the  ^  Encyclopedic.  >  Associated  with 
Diderot  in  this  vast  enterprise,  he  was  at  first,  because  of  his 
eminent  position  in  the  scientific  world,  its  director  and  official  head. 
He  contributed  a  large  number  of  scientific  and  philosophic  articles, 
and  took  entire  charge  of  the  revising  of  the  mathematical  division. 
His  most  noteworthy  contribution,  however,  is  the  *  Preliminary  Dis- 
course,' prefixed  as  a  general  introduction  and  explanation  of  the 
work.  In  this  he  traced  with  wonderful  clearness  and  logical  pre- 
cision the  successive  steps  of  the  human  mind  in  its  search  after 
knowledge,  and  basing  his  conclusion  on  the  historical  evolution  of  the 
race,  he  sketched  in  broad  outlines  the  development  of  the  sciences 
and  arts.  In  1758  he  withdrew  from  the  active  direction  of  the 
< Encyclopedic,*  that  he  might  free  himself  from  the  annoyance  of  gov- 
ernmental interference,  to  which  the  work  was  constantly  subjected 
because  of  the  skeptical  tendencies  it  evinced.  But  he  continued  to 
contribute  mathematical  articles,  with  a  few  on  other  topics.  One  of 
these,  on  *  Geneva,*  involved  him  in  his  celebrated  dispute  with  Rous- 
seau and  other  radicals  in  regard  to  Calvinism  and  the  suppression 
of  theatrical  performances  in  the  stronghold  of  Swiss  orthodoxy. 

His  fame  was  spreading  over  Europe.  Frederick  the  Great  of 
Prussia  repeatedly  offered  him  the  presidency  of  the  Academy  of 
Sciences  of  Berlin.  But  he  refused,  as  he  also  declined  the  magnifi- 
cent offer  of  Catherine  of  Russia  to  become  tutor  to  her  son,  at  a 
yearly  salary  of  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  Pope  Benedict  XIV. 
honored  him  by  recommending  him  to  the  membership  of  the  Insti- 
tute of  Bologne;  and  the  high  esteem  in  which  he  was  held  in  Eng- 
land is  shown  by  the  legacy  of  ;^2oo  left  him  by  David  Hume. 

All  these  honors  and  distinctions  did  not  affect  the  simplicity  of 
his  life,  for  during  thirty  years  he  continued  to  reside  in  the  pooi 
and  incommodious  quarters  of  his  foster-mother,  whom  he  partly 
supported  out  of  his  small  income.  Ill  health  at  last  drove  him  to 
seek  better  accommodations.  He  had  formed  a  romantic  attachment 
for  Mademoiselle  de  I'Espinasse,  and  lived  with  her  in  the  same 
house  for  years  unscandaled.  Her  death  in  1776  plunged  him  into 
profound  grief.     He  died  nine  years  later,  on  the  9th  of  October,  1783. 

His  manner  was  plain  and  at  times  almost  rude;  he  had^great 
independence  of  character,  but  also  much  simplicity  and  benevolence. 
With  the  other  French  deists,  D'Alembert  has  been  attacked  for  his 
religious  opinions,  but  with  injustice.  He  was  prudent  in  the  public 
expression  of  them,  as  the  time  necessitated ;  but  he  makes  the  freest 
statement  of  them  in  his  correspondence  with  Voltaire.  His  literary 
and  philosopic  works  were  edited  by  Bassange  (Paris,  1891).  Condor- 
cet,  in  his  *  Eulogy,*  gives  the  best  account  of  his  life  and  writings. 


JEAN  LE   ROND   D'ALEMBERT  -ey 

MONTESQUIEU 
From  the  Eulogy  published  in  the  <  Encyclopedie  * 

THESE  particulars  [of  Montesquieu's  genealogy]  may  seem  su- 
perfluous in  the  eulogy  of  a  philosopher  who  stands  so  lit- 
tle in  need  of  ancestors;  but  at  least  we  may  adorn  their 
memory  with  that  lustre  which  his  name  reflects  upon  it. 

The  early  promise  of  his  genius  was  fulfilled  in  Charles  de 
Secondat.  He  discovered  very  soon  what  he  desired  to  be,  and 
his  father  cultivated  this  rising  genius,  the  object  of  his  hope 
and  of  his  tenderness.  At  the  age  of  twenty,  young  Montesquieu 
had  already  prepared  materials  for  the  ^Spirit  of  Laws,*  by  a  well- 
digested  extract  from  the  immense  body  of  the  civil  law;  as  New- 
ton had  laid  in  early  youth  the  foundation  of  his  immortal  works. 
The  study  of  jurisprudence,  however,  though  less  dry  to  M.  de 
Montesquieu  than  to  most  who  attempt  it,  because  he  studied  it 
as  a  philosopher,  did  not  content  him.  He  inquired  deeply  into 
the  subjects  which  pertain  to  religion,  and  considered  them  with 
that   wisdom,    decency,  and  equity,  which  characterize  his  work. 

A  brother  of  his  father,  perpetual  president  of  the  Parliament 
of  Bordeaux,  an  able  judge  and  virtuous  citizen,  the  oracle  of  his 
own  society  and  of  his  province,  having  lost  an  only  son,  left  his 
fortune  and  his  office  to  M.  de  Montesquieu. 

Some  years  after,  in  1722,  during  the  king's  minority,  his 
society  employed  him  to  present  remonstrances  upon  occasion  of 
a  new  impost.  Placed  between  the  throne  and  the  people,  like  a 
respectful  subject  and  courageous  magistrate  he  brought  the  cry 
of  the  wretched  to  the  ears  of  the  sovereign  —  a  cry  which,  being 
heard,  obtained  justice.  Unfortunately,  this  success  was  momentary. 
Scarce  was  the  popular  voice  silenced  before  the  suppressed  tax 
Was  replaced  by  another;  but  the  good  citizen  had  done  his  duty. 

He  was  received  the  3d  of  April,  17 16,  into  the  new  academy 
of  Bordeaux.  A  taste  for  music  and  entertainment  had  at  first 
assembled  its  members.  M.  de  Montesquieu  believed  that  the 
talents  of  his  friends  might  be  better  employed  in  physical  sub- 
jects. He  was  persuaded  that  nature,  worthy  of  being  beheld 
everywhere,  could  find  everywhere  eyes  worthy  to  behold  her; 
while  it  was  impossible  to  gather  together,  at  a  distance  from 
the  metropolis,  distinguished  writers  on  works  of  taste.  He 
looked  upon  our  provincial  societies  for  belles-lettres  as  a  shadow 
of  literature  which  obscures  the  reality.  The  Duke  de  la  Force, 
by  a  prize  which  he  founded  at  Bordeaux,  seconded  these  rational 


358  JEAN  LE  ROND  D'ALEMBERT 

views.  It  was  decided  that  a  good  physical  experiment  would  be 
better  than  a  weak  discourse  or  a  bad  poem;  and  Bordeaux  got 
an  Academy  of  Sciences. 

M.  de  Montesquieu,  careless  of  reputation,  wrote  little.  It 
was  not  till  172 1,  that  is  to  say,  at  thirty-two  years  of  age,  that 
he  published  the  *  Persian  Letters.  *  The  description  of  Oriental 
manners,  real  or  supposed,  is  the  least  important  thing  in  these 
letters.  It  serves  merely  as  a  pretense  for  a  delicate  satire  upon 
our  own  customs  and  for  the  concealment  of  a  serious  intention. 
In  this  moving  picture,  Usbec  chiefly  exposes,  with  as  much  ease 
as  energy,  whatever  among  us  most  struck  his  penetrating  eyes: 
our  way  of  treating  the  silliest  things  seriously,  and  of  laughing 
at  the  most  important;  our  way  of  talking  which  is  at  once  so 
blustering  and  so  frivolous;  our  impatience  even  in  the  midst  of 
pleasure  itself;  our  prejudices  and  our  actions  that  perpetually 
contradict  our  understandings;  our  great  love  of  glory  and  respect 
for  the  idol  of  court  favor,  our  little  real  pride;  our  courtiers  so 
mean  and  vain;  our  exterior  politeness  to,  and  our  real  contempt 
of  strangers;  our  fantastical  tastes,  than  which  there  is  nothing 
lower  but  the  eagerness  of  all  Europe  to  adopt  them;  our  bar- 
barous disdain  for  the  two  most  respectable  occupations  of  a 
citizen  —  commerce  and  magistracy;  our  literary  disputes,  so  keen 
and  so  useless;  our  rage  for  writing  before  we  think,  and  for 
judging  before  we  understand.  To  this  picture  he  opposes,  in 
the  apologue  of  the  Troglodytes,  the  description  of  a  virtuous 
people,  become  wise  by  misfortunes — a  piece  worthy  of  the  por- 
tico. In  another  place,  he  represents  philosophy,  long  silenced, 
suddenly  reappearing,  regaining  rapidly  the  time  which  she  had 
lost;  penetrating  even  among  the  Russians  at  the  voice  of  a 
genius  which  invites  her;  while  among  other  people  of  Europe, 
superstition,  like  a  thick  atmosphere,  prevents  the  all-surrounding 
light  from  reaching  them.  Finally,  by  his  review  of  ancient  and 
modern  government,  he  presents  us  with  the  bud  of  those  bright 
ideas  since  fully  developed  in  his  great  work. 

These  different  subjects,  no  longer  novel,  as  when  the  *  Persian 
Letters*  first  appeared,  will  forever  remain  original  —  a  merit  the 
more  real  that  it  proceeds  alone  from  the  genius  of  the  writer; 
for  Usbec  acquired,  during  his  abode  in  France,  so  perfect  a 
knowledge  of  our  morals,  and  so  strong  a  tincture  of  our  man- 
ners, that  his  style  makes  us  forget  his  country.  This  small 
solecism  was  perhaps  not  unintentional.  While  exposing  our  fol- 
lies and  vices,  he  meant,  no  doubt,  to   do   justice   to   our   merits 


JEAN  LE  ROND  D'ALEMBERT  35  g 

Avoiding  the  insipidity  of  a  direct  panegyric,  he  has  more  deli- 
cately praised  us  by  assuming  our  own  air  in  professed  satire. 

Notwithstanding  the  success  of  his  work,  M.  de  Montesquieu 
did  not  acknowledge  it.  Perhaps  he  wished  to  escape  criticism. 
Perhaps   he    wished   to   avoid   a    contrast   of   the   frivolity   of   the 

*  Persian  Letters*  with  the  gravity  of  his  office;  a  sort  of  reproach 
which  critics  never  fail  to  make,  because  it  requires  no  sort  of 
effort.  But  his  secret  was  discovered,  and  the  public  suggested 
his  name  for  the  Academy.  The  event  justified  M.  de  Montes- 
quieu's silence.  Usbec  expresses  himself  freely,  not  concerning 
the  fundamentals  of  Christianity,  but  about  matters  which  people 
affect  to  confound  with  Christianity  itself:  about  the  spirit  of 
persecution  which  has  animated  so  many  Christians;  about  the 
temporal  usurpation  of  ecclesiastical  power;  about  the  excessive 
multiplication  of  monasteries,  which  deprive  the  State  of  subjects 
without  giving  worshipers  to  God;  about  some  opinions  which 
would  fain  be  established  as  principles;  about  our  religious  dis- 
putes, always  violent  and  often  fatal.  If  he  appears  anywhere  to 
touch  upon  questions  more  vital  to  Christianity  itself,  his  reflec- 
tions are  in  fact  favorable  to  revelation,  because  he  shows  how 
little  human  reason,  left  to  itself,  knows. 

Among  the  genuine  letters  of  M.  de  Montesquieu  the  foreign 
printer  had  inserted  some  by  another  hand.  Before  the  author 
was  condemned,  these  should  have  been  thrown  out.  Regardless 
of  these  considerations,  hatred  masquerading  as  zeal,  and  zeal 
without   understanding,    rose   and   united   themselves    against   the 

*  Persian  Letters.*  Informers,  a  species  of  men  dangerous  and 
base,  alarmed  the  piety  of  the  ministry.  M.  de  Montesquieu, 
urged  by  his  friends,  supported  by  the  public  voice,  having 
offered  himself  for  the  vacant  place  of  M.  de  Sacy  in  the  French 
Academy,  the  minister  wrote  *  The  Forty  **  that  his  Majesty  would 
never  accept  the  election  of  the  author  of  the  *  Persian  Letters*; 
that  he  had  not,  indeed,  read  the  book,  but  that  persons  in  whom 
he  placed  confidence  had  informed  him  of  its  poisonous  tendency. 
M.  de  Montesquieu  saw  what  a  blow  such  an  accusation  might 
prove  to  his  person,  his  family,  and  his  tranquillity.  He  neither 
sought  literary  honors  nor  affected  to  disdain  them  when  they 
came  in  his  way,  nor  did  he  regard  the  lack  of  them  as  a  misfor- 
tune: but  a  perpetual  exclusion,  and  the  motives  of  that  exclus- 
ion, appeared  to  him  to  be  an  injury.  He  saw  the  minister,  and 
explained  that  though  he  did  not  acknowledge  the  *  Persian  Let- 
ters.* he  would  not  disown  a  work  for  which  he  had  no  reason  to 


360  JEAN   LE   ROND   D'ALEMBERT 

blush;  and  that  he  ought  to  be  judged  upon  its  contents,  and  not 
upon  mere  hearsay.  At  last  the  minister  read  the  book,  loved 
the  author,  and  learned  wisdom  as  to  his  advisers.  The  French 
Academy  obtained  one  of  its  greatest  ornaments,  and  France  had 
the  happiness  to  keep  a  subject  whom  superstition  or  calumny 
had  nearly  deprived  her  of;  for  M.  de  Montesquieu  had  declared 
to  the  government  that,  after  the  affront  they  proposed,  he  would 
go  among  foreigners  in  quest  of  that  safety,  that  repose,  and  per- 
haps those  rewards  which  he  might  reasonably  have  expected  in 
his  own  country.  The  nation  would  really  have  deplored  his  loss, 
while  yet  the  disgrace  of  it  must  have  fallen  upon  her. 

M.  de  Montesquieu  was  received  the  24th  of  January,  1728. 
His  oration  is  one  of  the  best  ever  pronounced  here.  Among 
many  admirable  passages  which  shine  out  in  its  pages  is  the  deep- 
thinking  writer's  characterization  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  "  who 
taught  France  the  secret  of  its  strength,  and  Spain  that  of  its 
weakness;  who  freed  Germany  from  her  chains  and  gave  her  new 
ones.  * 

The  new  Academician  was  the  worthier  of  this  title,  that  he 
had  renounced  all  other  employments  to  give  himself  entirely  up 
to  his  genius  and  his  taste.  However  important  was  his  place,  he 
perceived  that  a  different  work  must  employ  his  talents;  that  the 
citizen  is  accountable  to  his  country  and  to  mankind  for  all  the 
good  he  may  do;  and  that  he  could  be  more  useful  by  his  writ- 
ings than  by  settling  obscure  legal  disputes.  He  was  no  longer 
a  magistrate,  but  only  a  man  of  letters. 

But  that  his  works  should  serve  other  nations,  it  was  neces- 
sary that  he  should  travel,  his  aim  being  to  examine  the  natural 
and  moral  world,  to  study  the  laws  and  constitution  of  every 
country;  to  visit  scholars,  writers,  artists,  and  everywhere  to  seek 
for  those  rare  men  whose  conversation  sometimes  supplies  the 
place  of  years  of  observation.  M.  de  Montesquieu  might  have 
said,  like  Democritus,  **  I  have  forgot  nothing  to  instruct  myself ; 
I  have  quitted  my  country  and  traveled  over  the  universe,  the 
better  to  know  truth;  I  have  seen  all  the  illustrious  personages  of 
my  time.**  But  there  was  this  difference  between  the  French 
Democritus  and  him  of  Abdera,  that  the  first  traveled  to  instruct 
men,  and  the  second  to  laugh  at  them. 

He  went  first  to  Vienna,  where  he  often  saw  the  celebrated 
Prince  Eugene.  This  hero,  so  fatal  to  France  (to  which  he 
might  have  been  so  useful),  after  having  checked  the  advance  of 
Louis  XIV.  and  humbled  the  Ottoman  pride,  lived  without  pomp. 


JEAN   LE   ROND   D'ALEMBERT  26l 

loving-  and  cultivating  letters  in  a  court  where  they  are  little 
honored,  and  showing  his  masters  how  to  protect  them. 

Leaving  Vienna,  the  traveler  visited  Hungary,  an  opulent  and 
fertile  country,  inhabited  by  a  haughty  and  generous  nation,  the 
scourge  of  its  tyrants  and  the  support  of  its  sovereigns.  ^  As  few 
persons  know  this  country  well,  he  has  written  with  care  this 
part  of  his  travels. 

From  Germany  he  went  to  Italy.  At  Venice  he  met  the 
famous  Mr.  Law,  of  whose  former  grandeur  nothing  remained 
but  projects  fortunately  destined  to  die  away  unorganized,  and  a 
diamond  which  he  pawned  to  play  at  games  of  hazard.  One  day 
the  conversation  turned  on  the  famous  system  which  Law  had 
invented;  the  source  of  so  many  calamities,  so  many  colossal  for- 
tunes, and  so  remarkable  a  corruption  in  our  morals.  As  the  Par- 
liament of  Paris  had  made  some  resistance  to  the  Scotch  minister 
on  this  occasion,  M.  de  Montesquieu  asked  him  why  he  had  never 
tried  to  overcome  this  resistance  by  a  method  almost  always 
infallible  in  England,  by  the  grand  mover  of  human  actions — in 
a  word,  by  money.  "  These  are  not,  '*  answered  Law,  *^  geniuses  so 
ardent  and  so  generous  as  my  countrymen;  but  they  are  much 
more  incorruptible.*^  It  is  certainly  true  that  a  society  which  is 
free  for  a  limited  time  ought  to  resist  corruption  more  than  one 
which  is  always  free:  the  first,  when  it  sells  its  liberty,  loses  it; 
the  second,  so  to  speak,  only  lends  it,  and  exercises  it  even  when 
it  is  thus  parting  with  it.  Thus  the  circumstances  and  nature  of 
government  give  rise  to  the  vices  and  virtues  of  nations. 

Another  person,  no  less  famous,  whom  M.  de  Montesquieu  saw 
still  oftener  at  Venice,  was  Count  de  Bonneval.  This  man,  so 
well  known  for  his  adventures,  which  were  not  yet  at  an  end, 
delighted  to  converse  with  so  good  a  judge  and  so  excellent  a 
hearer,  often  related  to  him  the  military  actions  in  which  he  had 
been  engaged,  and  the  remarkable  circumstances  of  his  life,  and 
drew  the  characters  of  generals  and  ministers  whom  he  had 
known. 

He  went  from  Venice  to  Rome.  In  this  ancient  capital  of 
the  world  he  studied  the  works  of  Raphael,  of  Titian,  and  of 
Michael  Angelo.  Accustomed  to  study  nature,  he  knew  her  when 
she  was  translated,  as  a  faithful  portrait  appeals  to  all  who  are 
familiar  with  the  original. 

After  having  traveled  over  Italy,  M.  de  Montesquieu  came  to 
Switzerland  and   studied  those  vast   countries  which   are  watered 


^62  JEAN  LE   ROND   D'ALEMBERT 

by  the  Rhine.  There  was  the  less  for  him  to  see  in  Germany 
that  Frederick  did  not  yet  reign.  In  the  United  Provinces  he 
beheld  an  admirable  monument  of  what  human  industry  animated 
by  a  love  of  liberty  can  do.  In  England  he  stayed  three  years. 
Welcomed  by  the  greatest  men,  he  had  nothing  to  regret  save 
that  he  had  not  made  his  journey  sooner.  Newton  and  Locke 
were  dead.  But  he  had  often  the  honor  of  paying  his  respects  to 
their  patroness,  the  celebrated  Queen  of  England,  who  cultivated 
philosophy  upon  a  throne,  and  who  properly  esteemed  and  val- 
ued M.  de  Montesquieu.  Nor  was  he  less  well  received  by  the 
nation.  At  London  he  formed  intimate  friendships  with  the 
great  thinkers.  With  them  he  studied  the  nature  of  the  govern- 
ment, attaining  profound  knowledge  of  it. 

As  he  had  set  out  neither  as  an  enthusiast  nor  a  cynic,  he 
brought  back  neither  a  disdain  for  foreigners  nor  a  contempt  for 
his  own  country.  It  was  the  result  of  his  observations  that  Ger- 
many was  made  to  travel  in,  Italy  to  sojourn  in,  England  to  think 
in,  and  France  to  live  in. 

After  returning  to  his  own  country,  M.  de  Montesquieu  retired 
for  two  years  to  his  estate  of  La  Br^de,  enjoying  that  solitude 
which  a  life  in  the  tumult  and  hurry  of  the  world  but  makes  the 
more  agreeable.  He  lived  with  himself,  after  having  so  long 
lived  with  others;  and  finished  his  work  *On  the  Cause  of  the 
Grandeur  and  Decline  of  the  Romans,*  which  appeared  in   1734. 

Empires,  like  men,  must  increase,  decay,  and  be  extinguished. 
But  this  necessary  revolution  may  have  hidden  causes  which  the 
veil  of  time  conceals  from  us. 

Nothing  in  this  respect  more  resembles  modem  history  than 
ancient  history.  That  of  the  Romans  must,  however,  be  excepted. 
It  presents  us  with  a  rational  policy,  a  connected  system  of  ag- 
grandizement, which  will  not  permit  us  to  attribute  the  great  for- 
tune of  this  people  to  obscure  and  inferior  sources.  The  causes  of 
the  Roman  grandeur  may  then  be  found  in  history,  and  it  is  the 
business  of  the  philosopher  to  discover  them.  Besides,  there  are 
no  systems  in  this  study,  as  in  that  of  physics,  which  are  easily 
overthrown,  because  one  new  and  unforeseen  experiment  can 
upset  them  in  an  instant.  On  the  contrary,  when  we  carefully 
collect  the  facts,  if  we  do  not  always  gather  together  all  the 
desired  materials,  we  may  at  least  hope  one  day  to  obtain  more. 
A  great  historian  combines  in  the  most  perfect  manner  these 
defective  materials.     His  merit  is  like  that  of  an  architect,  who. 


JEAN   LE   ROND  D'ALEMBERT  ,63 

from  a  few  remains,  traces  the  plan  of  an  ancient  edifice ;  supply- 
ing, by  genius  and  happy  conjectures,  what  was  wanting  in  fact. 

It  is  from  this  point  of  view  that  we  ought  to  consider  the 
work  of  M.  de  Montesquieu.  He  finds  the  causes  of  the  grandeur 
of  the  Romans  in  that  love  of  liberty,  of  labor,  and  of  country, 
which  was  instilled  into  them  during  their  infancy;  in  those 
intestine  divisions  which  gave  an  activity  to  their  genius,  and 
which  ceased  immediately  upon  the  appearance  of  an  enemy;  in 
that  constancy  after  misfortunes,  which  never  despaired  of  the 
republic;  in  that  principle  they  adhered  to  of  never  making  peace 
but  after  victories;  in  the  honor  of  a  triumph,  which  was  a  sub- 
ject of  emulation  among  the  generals;  in  that  protection  which 
they  granted  to  those  peoples  who  rebelled  against  their  kings; 
in  the  excellent  policy  of  permitting  the  conquered  to  preserve 
their  religion  and  customs;  and  the  equally  excellent  determina- 
tion never  to  have  two  enemies  upon  their  hands  at  once,  but  to 
bear  everything  from  the  one  till  they  had  destroyed  the  other. 
He  finds  the  causes  of  their  declension  in  the  aggrandizement  of 
the  State  itself:  in  those  distant  wars,  which,  obliging  the  citizens 
to  be  too  long  absent,  made  them  insensibly  lose  their  republican 
spirit;  in  the  too  easily  granted  privilege  of  being  citizens  of 
Rome,  which  made  the  Roman  people  at  last  become  a  sort  of 
many-headed  monster;  in  the  corruption  introduced  by  the  luxury 
of  Asia;  in  the  proscriptions  of  Sylla,  which  debased  the  genius 
of  the  nation,  and  prepared  it  for  slavery;  in  the  necessity  of 
having  a  master  while  their  liberty  was  become  burdensome  to 
them;  in  the  necessity  of  changing  their  maxims  when  they 
-changed  their  government;  in  that  series  of  monsters  who 
reigned,  almost  without  interruption,  from  Tiberius  to  Nerva, 
and  from  Commodus  to  Constantine;  lastly,  in  the  translation 
and  division  of  the  empire,  which  perished  first  in  the  West 
by  the  power  of  barbarians,  and  after  having  languished  in  the 
East,  under  weak  or  cruel  emperors,  insensibly  died  away,  like 
-hose  rivers  which  disappear  in  the  sands. 

In  a  very  small  volume  M.  de  Montesquieu  explained  and 
unfolded  his  picture.  Avoiding  detail,  and  seizing  only  essentials, 
he  has  included  in  a  very  small  space  a  vast  number  of  objects 
distinctly  perceived,  and  rapidly  presented,  without  fatiguing  the 
reader.  While  he  points  out  much,  he  leaves  us  still  more  to 
reflect  upon;  and  he  might  have  entitled  his  book,  *A  Roman 
Histoiy  for  the  Use  of  Statesmen  and  Philosophers.* 


264  JEAN   LE   ROND   D'ALEMBERT 

Whatever  reputation  M.  de  Montesquieu  had  thus  far  acquired, 
he  had  but  cleared  the  way  for  a  far  grander  undertaking  —  for 
that  which  ought  to  immortalize  his  name,  and  commend  it  to 
the  admiration  of  future  ages.  He  had  meditated  for  twenty 
years  upon  its  execution;  or,  to  speak  more  exactly,  his  whole 
life  had  been  a  perpetual  meditation  upon  it.  He  had  made 
himself  in  some  sort  a  stranger  in  his  own  country,  the  better  to 
understand  it.  He  had  studied  profoundly  the  different  peoples 
of  Europe.  The  famous  island,  which  so  glories  in  her  laws,  and 
which  makes  so  bad  a  use  of  them,  proved  to  him  what  Crete 
had  been  to  Lycurgus  —  a  school  where  he  learned  much  without 
approving  everything.  Thus  he  attained  by  degrees  to  the  noblest 
title  a  wise  man  can  deserve,  that  of  legislator  of  nations. 

If  he  was  animated  by  the  importance  of  his  subject,  he  was 
at  the  same  time  terrified  by  its  extent.  He  abandoned  it,  and 
returned  to  it  again  and  again.  More  than  once,  as  he  himself 
owns,  he  felt  his  paternal  hands  fail  him.  At  last,  encouraged 
by  his  friends,  he  resolved  to  publish  the  ^Spirit  of  Laws. ^ 

In  this  important  work  M.  de  Montesquieu,  without  insisting, 
like  his  predecessors,  upon  metaphysical  discussions,  without  con- 
fining himself,  like  them,  to  consider  certain  people  in  certain 
particular  relations  or  circumstances,  takes  a  view  of  the  actual 
inhabitants  of  the  world  in  all  their  conceivable  relations  to  each 
other.  Most  other  writers  in  this  way  are  either  simple  moral- 
ists, or  simple  lawyers,  or  even  sometimes  simple  theologists.  As 
for  him,  a  citizen  of  all  nations,  he  cares  less  what  duty  requires 
of  us  than  what  means  may  constrain  us  to  do  it;  about  the 
metaphysical  perfection  of  laws,  than  about  what  man  is  capable 
of;  about  laws  which  have  been  made,  than  about  those  which 
ought  to  have  been  made;  about  the  laws  of  a  particular  people, 
than  about  those  of  all  peoples.  Thus,  when  comparing  himself 
to  those  who  have  run  before  him  in  this  noble  and  grand 
career,  he  might  say,  with  Correggio,  when  he  had  seen  the 
works  of  his  rivals,   **And  I,  too,  am  a  Painter.^* 

Filled  with  his  subject,  the  author  of  the  *■  Spirit  of  Laws  * 
comprehends  so  many  materials,  and  treats  them  with  such  brev- 
ity and  depth,  that  assiduous  reading  alone  discloses  its  merit. 
This  study  will  make  that  pretended  want  of  method,  of  which 
some  readers  have  accused  M.  de  Montesquieu,  disappear.  Real 
want  of  order  should  be  distinguished  from  what  is  apparent 
only.     Real  disorder  confuses  the  analogy  and  connection  of  ideas; 


JEAN  LE  ROND  D'ALEMBERT  ^65 

or  sets  up  conclusions  as  principles,  so  that  the  reader,  after 
innumerable  windings,  finds  himself  at  the  point  whence  he  set 
out.  Apparent  disorder  is  when  the  author,  putting  his  ideas 
in  their  true  place,  leaves  it  to  the  readers  to  supply  intermedi- 
ate ones.  M.  de  Montesquieu's  book  is  designed  for  men  who 
think,  for  men  capable  of  supplying  voluntary  and  reasonable 
omissions. 

The  order  perceivable  in  the  grand  divisions  of  the  *  Spirit 
of  Laws*  pervades  the  smaller  details  also.  By  his  method  of 
arrangement  we  easily  perceive  the  influence  of  the  different  parts 
upon  each  other;  as,  in  a  system  of  human  knowledge  well  under- 
stood, we  may  perceive  the  mutual  relation  of  sciences  and  arts. 
There  must  always  remain  something  arbitrary  in  every  compre- 
hensive scheme,  and  all  that  can  be  required  of  an  author  is,  that 
he  follow  strictly  his  own  system. 

For  an  allowable  obscurity  the  same  defense  exists.  What 
may  be  obscure  to  the  ignorant  is  not  so  for  those  whom  the 
author  had  in  mind.  Besides,  voluntary  obscurity  is  not  properly 
obscurity.  Obliged  to  present  truths  of  great  importance,  the 
direct  avowal  of  which  might  have  shocked  without  doing  good, 
M.  de  Montesquieu  has  had  the  prudence  to  conceal  them  from 
those  whom  they  might  have  hurt  without  hiding  them  from  the 
wise. 

He  has  especially  profited  from  the  two  most  thoughtful  his- 
torians, Tacitus  and  Plutarch;  but,  though  a  philosopher  familiar 
with  these  authors  might  have  dispensed  with  many  others,  he 
neglected  nothing  that  could  be  of  use.  The  reading  necessary 
for  the  ^  Spirit  of  Laws  *  is  immense ;  and  the  author's  ingenuity 
is  the  more  wonderful  because  he  was  almost  blind,  and  obliged 
to  depend  on  other  men's  eyes.  This  prodigious  reading  contrib- 
utes not  only  to  the  utility,  but  to  the  agreeableness  of  the  work. 
Without  sacrificing  dignity,  M.  de  Montesquieu  entertains  the 
reader  by  unfamiliar  facts,  or  by  delicate  allusions,  or  by  those 
strong  and  brilliant  touches  which  paint,  by  one  stroke,  nations 
and  men. 

In  a  word,  M.  de  Montesquieu  stands  for  the  study  of  laws,  as 
Descartes  stood  for  that  of  philosophy.  He  often  instructs  us,  and 
is  sometimes  mistaken;  and  even  when  he  mistakes,  he  instructs 
those  who  know  how  to  read  him.  The  last  edition  of  his  works 
demonstrates,  by  its  many  corrections  and  additions,  that  when  he 
has  made  a  slip,  he  has  been  able  to  rise  again. 


266  JEAN  LE  ROND   D'ALEMBERT 

But  what  is  within  the  reach  of  all  the  world  is  the  spirit  of 
the  ^Spirit  of  Laws/  which  ought  to  endear  the  author  to  all 
nations,  to  cover  far  greater  faults  than  are  his.  The  love  of  the 
public  good,  a  desire  to  see  men  happy,  reveals  itself  everywhere; 
and  had  it  no  other  merit,  it  would  be  worthy,  on  this  account 
alone,  to  be  read  by  nations  and  kings.  Already  we  may  perceive 
that  the  fruits  of  this  work  are  ripe.  Though  M.  de  Montesquieu 
scarcely  survived  the  publication  of  the  ^  Spirit  of  Laws,  *  he  had 
the  satisfaction  to  foresee  its  effects  among  us ;  the  natural  love  of 
Frenchmen  for  their  country  turned  toward  its  true  object;  that 
taste  for  commerce,  for  agriculture,  and  for  useful  arts,  which 
insensibly  spreads  itself  in  our  nation;  that  general  knowledge  of 
the  principles  of  government,  which  renders  people  more  attached 
to  that  which  they  ought  to  love.  Even  the  men  who  have 
indecently  attacked  this  work  perhaps  owe  more  to  it  than  they 
imagine.  Ingratitude,  besides,  is  their  least  fault.  It  is  not  with- 
out regret  and  mortification  that  we  expose  them;  but  this  history 
is  of  too  much  consequence  to  M.  de  Montesquieu  and  to  philoso- 
phy to  be  passed  over  in  silence.  May  that  reproach,  which  at 
last  covers  his  enemies,  profit  them! 

The  *  Spirit  of  Laws  *  was  at  once  eagerly  sought  after  on 
account  of  the  reputation  of  its  author;  but  though  M.  de  Montes- 
quieu had  written  for  thinkers,  he  had  the  vulgar  for  his  judge. 
The  brilliant  passages  scattered  up  and  down  the  work,  admit- 
ted only  because  they  illustrated  the  subject,  made  the  ignorant 
believe  that  it  was  written  for  them.  Looking  for  an  entertaining 
book,  they  found  a  useful  one,  whose  scheme  and  details  they 
could  not  comprehend  without  attention.  The  *  Spirit  of  Laws  * 
was  treated  with  a  deal  of  cheap  wit;  even  the  title  of  it  was 
made  a  subject  of  pleasantry.  In  a  word,  one  of  the  finest  literary 
monuments  which  our  nation  ever  produced  was  received  almost 
with  scurrility.  It  was  requisite  that  competent  judges  should 
have  time  to  read  it,  that  they  might  correct  the  errors  of  the 
fickle  multitude.  That  small  public  which  teaches,  dictated  to 
that  large  public  which  listens  to  hear,  how  it  ought  to  think  and 
speak;  and  the  suffrages  of  men  of  abilities  formed  only  one 
voice  over  all  Europe. 

The  open  and  secret  enemies  of  letters  and  philosophy  now 
united  their  darts  against  this  work.  Hence  that  multitude  of 
pamphlets  discharged  against  the  author,  weapons  which  we  shall 
not  draw  from  oblivion.     If  those  authors  were  not  forgotten,  it 


JEAN  LE  ROND  D'ALEMBERT  367 

might  be  believed  that  the  *  Spirit  of  Laws  *  was  written  amid  a 
nation  of  barbarians. 

M.  de  Montesquieu  despised  the  obscure  criticisms  of  the 
curious.  He  ranked  them  with  those  weekly  newspapers  whose 
encomiums  have  no  authority,  and  their  darts  no  effect;  which 
indolent  readers  run  over  without  believing,  and  in  which  sov- 
ereigns are  insulted  without  knowing  it.  But  he  was  not  equally 
indifferent  about  those  principles  of  irreligion  which  they  accused 
him  of  having  propagated.  By  ignoring  such  reproaches  he 
would  have  seemed  to  deserve  them,  and  the  importance  of  the 
object  made  him  shut  his  eyes  to  the  meanness  of  his  adversaries. 
The  ultra-zealous,  afraid  of  that  light  which  letters  diffuse,  not  to 
the  prejudice  of  religion,  but  to  their  own  disadvantage,  took 
different  ways  of  attacking  him;  some,  by  a  trick  as  puerile  as 
cowardly,  wrote  fictitious  letters  to  themselves;  others,  attacking 
him  anonymously,  had  afterwards  fallen  by  the  ears  among  them- 
selves. M.  de  Montesquieu  contented  himself  with  making  an 
example  of  the  most  extravagant.  This  was  the  author  of  an 
anonymous  periodical  paper,  who  accused  M.  de  Montesquieu  of 
Spinozism  and  deism  (two  imputations  which  are  incompatible) ; 
of  having  followed  the  system  of  Pope  (of  which  there  is  not  a 
word  in  his  works) ;  of  having  quoted  Plutarch,  who  is  not  a 
Christian  author;  of  not  having  spoken  of  original  sin  and  of 
grace.  In  a  word,  he  pretended  that  the  *  Spirit  of  Laws  *  was  a 
production  of  the  constitution  Unigenitus;  a  preposterous  idea. 
Those  who  understand  M.  de  Montesquieu  and  Clement  XL  may 
judge,  by  this  accusation,  of  the  rest. 

This  enemy  procured  the  philosopher  an  addition  of  glory  as 
a  man  of  letters :  the  *  Defense  of  the  Spirit  of  Laws  *  appeared. 
This  work,  for  its  moderation,  truth,  delicacy  of  ridicule,  is  a 
model.  M.  de  Montesquieu  might  easily  have  made  his  adversary 
odious;  he  did  better  —  he  made  him  ridiculous.  We  owe  the 
aggressor  eternal  thanks  for  having  procured  us  this  masterpiece. 
For  here,  without  intending  it,  the  author  has  drawn  a  picture  of 
himself;  those  who  knew  him  think  they  hear  him;  and  posterity, 
when  reading  his  *  Defense,'  will  decide  that  his  conversation 
equaled  his  writings  —  an  encomium  which  few  great  men  have 
deserved. 

Another  circumstance  gave  him  the  advantage.  The  critic 
loudly  accused  the  clergy  of  France,  and  especially  the  faculty  of 
theology,   of  indifference  to  the  cause  of   God,   because   they   did 


368  JEAN   LE   ROND  D'ALEMBERT 

not  proscribe  the  *  Spirit  of  Laws.  *  The  faculty  resolved  to 
examine  the  *  Spirit  of  Laws.  *  Though  several  years  have  passed, 
it  has  not  yet  pronounced  a  decision.  It  knows  the  grounds  of 
reason  and  of  faith;  it  knows  that  the  work  of  a  man  of  letters 
ought  not  to  be  examined  like  that  of  a  theologian;  that  a  bad 
interpretation  does  not  condemn  a  proposition,  and  that  it  may 
injure  the  weak  to  see  an  ill-timed  suspicion  of  heresy  thrown 
upon  geniuses  of  the  first  rank.  In  spite  of  this  unjust  accusa- 
tion, M.  de  Montesquieu  was  always  esteemed,  visited,  and  well 
received  by  the  greatest  and  most  respectable  dignitaries  of  the 
Church.  Would  he  have  preserved  this  esteem  among  men  of 
worth,  if  they  had  regarded  him  as  a  dangerous  writer  ? 

M.  de  Montesquieu's  death  was  not  unworthy  of  his  life. 
Suffering  greatly,  far  from  a  family  that  was  dear  to  him,  sur- 
rounded by  a  few  friends  and  a  great  crowd  of  spectators,  he 
preserved  to  the  last  his  calmness  and  serenity  of  soul.  After 
performing  with  decency  every  duty,  full  of  confidence  in  the 
Eternal  Being,  he  died  with  the  tranquillity  of  a  man  of  worth, 
who  had  ever  consecrated  his  talents  to  virtue  and  humanity. 
France  and  Europe   lost  him  February  loth,   1755,  aged  sixty-six. 

All  the  newspapers  published  this  event  as  a  misfortune.  We 
may  apply  to  M.  de  Montesquieu  what  was  formerly  said  of  an 
illustrious  Roman:  that  nobody,  when  told  of  his  death,  showed 
any  joy  or  forgot  him  when  he  was  no  more.  Foreigners  were 
eager  to  demonstrate  their  regrets:  my  Lord  Chesterfield,  whom 
it  is  enough  to  name,  wrote  an  article  to  his  honor — an  article 
worthy  of  both.  It  is  the  portrait  of  Anaxagoras  drawn  by 
Pericles.  The  Royal  Academy  of  Sciences  and  Belles-Lettres  of 
Prussia,  though  it  is  not  its  custom  to  pronounce  a  eulogy  on 
foreign  members,  paid  him  an  honor  which  only  the  illustrious 
John  Bernoulli  had  hitherto  received.  M.  de  Maupertuis,  though 
ill,  performed  himself  this  last  duty  to  his  friend,  and  would  not 
permit  so  sacred  an  office  to  fall  to  the  share  of  any  other.  To 
these  honorable  suffrages  were  added  those  praises  given  him, 
in  presence  of  one  of  us,  by  that  very  monarch  to  whom  this 
celebrated  Academy  owes  its  lustre;  a  prince  who  feels  the  losses 
which  Philosophy  sustains,  and  at  the  same  time  comforts  her. 

The  17th  of  February  the  French  Academy,  according  to 
custom,  performed  a  solemn  service  for  him,  at  which  all  the 
learned  men  of  this  body  assisted.  They  ought  to  have  placed 
the  *  Spirit  of  Laws  *  upon  his  coffin,  as  heretofore  they  exposed, 


JEAN  LE  ROND  D'ALEMBERT  360 

opposite  to  that  of  Raphael,  his  Transfiguration.  This  simple  and 
affecting  decoration  would  have  been  a  fit  funeral  oration. 

M.  de  Montesquieu  had,  in  company,  an  unvarying  sweetness 
and  gayety  of  temper.  His  conversation  was  spirited,  agreeable, 
and  instructive,  because  he  had  known  so  many  great  men.  It 
was,  like  his  style,  concise,  full  of  wit  and  sallies,  without  gall, 
and  without  satire.  Nobody  told  a  story  more  brilliantly,  more 
readily,  more  gracefully,  or  with  less  affectation. 

His  frequent  absence  of  mind  only  made  him  the  more  amus- 
ing. He  always  roused  himself  to  reanimate  the  conversation. 
The  fire  of  his  genius,  his  prodigality  of  ideas,  gave  rise  tc 
flashes  of  speech;  but  he  never  interrupted  an  interesting  conver- 
sation;  and  he  was  attentive  without  affectation  and  without  con- 
straint. His  conversation  not  only  resembled  his  character  and 
his  genius,  but  had  the  method  which  he  observed  in  his  study. 
Though  capable  of  long-continued  meditation,  he  never  exhausted 
his  strength;  he  always  left  off  application  before  he  felt  the. 
least  symptom  of  fatigue. 

He  was  sensible  to  glory,  but  wished  only  to  deserve  it,  and 
never  tried  to  augment  his  own  fame  by  underhand  practices. 

Worthy  of  all  distinctions,  he  asked  none,  and  he  was  not 
surprised  that  he  was  forgot;  but  he  has  protected  at  court  men 
of  letters  who  were  persecuted,  celebrated,  and  unfortunate,  and 
has  obtained  favors  for  them. 

Though  he  lived  with  the  great,  their  company  was  not 
necessary  to  his  happiness.  He  retired  whenever  he  could  to  the 
country;  there  again  with  joy  to  welcome  his  philosophy,  his 
books,  and  his  repose.  After  having  studied  man  in  the  com- 
merce of  the  world,  and  in  the  history  of  nations,  he  studied  him 
also  among  those  simple  people  whom  nature  alone  has  in- 
structed. From  them  he  could  learn  something;  he  endeavored, 
like  Socrates,  to  find  out  their  genius;  he  appeared  as  happy 
thus  as  in  the  most  brilliant  assemblies,  especially  when  he  made 
up  their  differences,  and  comforted  them  by  his  beneficence. 

Nothing  does  greater  honor  to  his  memory  than  the  economy 
with  which  he  lived,  and  which  has  been  blamed  as  excessive  in 
a  proud  and  avaricious  age.  He  would  not  encroach  on  the  pro- 
vision for  his  family,  even  by  his  generosity  to  the  imfortunate, 
or  by  those  expenses  which  his  travels,  the  weakness  of  his  sight, 
and  the  printing  of  his  works  made  necessary.  He  transmitted 
to  his  children,  without  diminution  or  augmentation,  the  estate 
1—24 


270  JEAN   LE   ROND  D'ALEMBERT 

which  he  received  from  his  ancestors,  adding  nothing  to  it  but 
the  glory  of  his  name  and  the  example  of  his  life.  He  had 
married,  in  17 15,  dame  Jane  de  Lartigue,  daughter  of  Peter  de 
Lartigue,  lieutenant-colonel  of  the  regiment  of  Molevrier,  and 
had  by  her  two  daughters  and  one  son. 

Those  who  love  truth  and  their  country  will  not  be  displeased 
to  find  some  of  his  maxims  here.  He  thought:  That  every  part 
of  the  State  ought  to  be  equally  subject  to  the  laws,  but  that  the 
privileges  of  every  part  of  the  State  ought  to  be  respected  when 
they  do  not  oppose  the  natural  right  which  obliges  every  citizen 
equally  to  contribute  to  the  public  good;  that  ancient  possession 
was  in  this  kind  the  first  of  titles,  and  the  most  inviolable  of 
rights,  which  it  was  always  unjust  and  sometimes  dangerous  to 
shake;  that  magistrates,  in  all  circumstances,  and  notwithstand- 
ing their  own  advantage,  ought  to  be  magistrates  without  par- 
tiality and  without  passion,  like  the  laws  which  absolve  and 
punish  without  love  or  hatred.  He  said  upon  occasion  of  those 
ecclesiastical  disputes  which  so  much  employed  the  Greek  empe- 
rors and  Christians,  that  theological  disputes,  when  they  are  not 
confined  to  the  schools,  infallibly  dishonor  a  nation  in  the  eyes 
of  its  neighbors:  in  fact,  the  contempt  in  which  wise  men  hold 
those  quarrels  does  not  vindicate  the  character  of  their  country; 
because,  sages  making  everywhere  the  least  noise,  and  being  the 
smallest  number,  it  is  never  from  them  that  the  nation  is  judged. 

We  look  upon  that  special  interest  which  M.  de  Montesquieu 
took  in  the  <  Encyclop^die  *  as  one  of  the  most  honorable  rewards 
of  our  labor.  Perhaps  the  opposition  which  the  work  has  met 
with,  reminding  him  of  his  own  experience,  interested  him  the 
more  in  our  favor.  Perhaps  he  was  sensible,  without  perceiving 
it,  of  that  justice  which  we  dared  to  do  him  in  the  first  volume 
of  the  <  Encyclopedic,*  when  nobody  as  yet  had  ventured  to  say  a 
word  in  his  defense.  He  prepared  for  us  an  article  upon  *  Taste,* 
which  has  been  found  unfinished  among  his  papers.  We  shall 
give  it  to  the  public  in  that  condition,  and  treat  it  with  the  same 
respect  that  antiquity  formerly  showed  to  the  last  words  of 
Seneca.  Death  prevented  his  giving  us  any  further  marks  of  his 
approval;  and  joining  our  own  griefs  with  those  of  all  Europe, 
we  might  write  on  his  tomb:  — 

^^  Finis  vita  ejus  nobis  luctuosus,  patrice  iristis,  extraneis  etiam  ignotisque 

non  sine  cur  a  fuit?'* 


371 
VITTORIO  ALFIERI 

(1 749-1 803) 
BY  L.   OSCAR  KUHNS 

jTALiAN  literature  during  the  eighteenth  century,  although  it 
could  boast  of  no  names  in  any  way  comparable  with  those 
of  Dante,  Petrarch,  Ariosto,  and  Tasso,  showed  still  a  vast 
improvement  on  the  degradation  of  the  preceding  century.  Among 
the  most  famous  writers  of  the  times  —  Goldoni,  Parini,  Metastasio  — 
none  is  so  great  or  so  famous  as  Vittorio  Alfieri,  the  founder  of  Ital- 
ian tragedy.  The  story  of  his  life  and  of  his  literary  activity,  as 
told  by  himself  in  his  memoirs,  is  one  of  extreme  interest.  Bom  at 
Asti,  on  January  17th,  1749,  of  a  wealthy  and  noble  family,  he  grew 
up  to  manhood  singularly  deficient  in  knowledge  and  culture,  and 
without  the  slightest  interest  in  literature.  He  was  *  uneducated,* 
to  use  his  own  phrase,  in  the  Academy  of  Turin.  It  was  only  after  a 
long  tour  in  Italy,  France,  Holland,  and  England,  that,  recognizing 
his  own  ignorance,  he  went  to  Florence  to  beg^n  serious  work. 

At  the  age  of  twenty-seven  a  sudden  revelation  of  his  dramatic 
power  came  to  him,  and  with  passionate  energy  he  spent  the  rest  of 
his  life  in  laborious  study  and  in  efforts  to  make  himself  worthy  of 
a  place  among  the  poets  of  his  native  land.  Practically  he  had  to 
learn  everything ;  for  he  himself  tells  us  that  he  had  **  an  almost 
total  ignorance  of  the  rules  of  dramatic  composition,  and  an  unskill- 
fulness  almost  total  in  the  divine  and  most  necessary  art  of  writing 
well  and  handling  his  own  language.* 

His  private  life  was  eventful,  chiefly  through  his  many  senti- 
mental attachments,  its  deepest  experience  being  his  profound  love 
and  friendship  for  the  Countess  of  Albany,  —  Louise  Stolberg,  mistress 
and  afterward  wife  of  the  <<  Young  Pretender,*  who  passed  under  the 
title  of  Count  of  Albany,  and  from  whom  she  was  finally  divorced. 
The  production  of  Alfieri's  tragedies  began  with  the  sketch  called 
^ Cleopatra,^  in  1775,  and  lasted  till  1789,  when  a  complete  edition,  by 
Didot,  appeared  in  Paris.  His  only  important  prose  work  is  his  *  Auto- 
biography, >  begun  in  1790  and  ended  in  the  year  of  his  death,  1803, 
Although  heMpote  several  comedies  and  a  number  of  sonnets  and 
satires, — whi^H  do  not  often  rise  above  mediocrity, — it  is  as  a  tragic 
poet  that  he  is  known  to  fame.  Before  him  —  though  Goldoni  had 
successfully  imitated  Moliere  in  comedy,  and  Metastasio  had  become 
enormously  popular  as  the  poet  of  love  and  the  opera  —  no  tragedies 
liad  been  written  inBBaly  which  deserved  to  be  compared  with  the 
g;reat   dramas  of  France,  Spain,  and  England.      Indeed,  it  had  been 


372  VITTORIO  ALPIERI 

said  that  tragedy  was  not  adapted  to  the  Italian  tongue  or  caaractet. 
It  remained  for  Alfieri  to  prove  the  falsity  of  this  theory. 

Always  sensitive  to  the  charge  of  plagiarism,  Alfieri  declared  that 
whether  his  tragedies  were  good  or  bad,  they  were  at  least  his  own. 
This  is  true  to  a  certain  extent.  And  yet  he  was  influenced  more 
than  he  was  willing  to  acknowledge  by  the  French  dramatists  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  In  common  with  Corneille  and  Racine,  he  ob- 
served strictly  the  three  unities  of  time,  place,  and  action.  But  the 
courtliness  of  language,  the  grace  and  poetry  of  the  French  dramas, 
and  especially  the  tender  love  of  Racine,  are  altogether  lacking  with 
him. 

Alfieri  had  a  certain  definite  theory  of  tragedy  which  he  followed 
with  unswerving  fidelity.  He  aimed  at  the  simplicity  and  directness 
of  the  Greek  drama.  He  sought  to  give  one  clear,  definite  action, 
which  should  advance  in  a  straight  line  from  beginning  to  end,  with- 
out deviation,  and  carry  along  the  characters  —  who  are,  for  the  most 
part,  helplessly  entangled  in  the  toils  of  a  relentless  fate  —  to  an 
inevitable  destruction.  For  this  reaspn  the  well-known  confidantes  of 
the  French  stage  were  discarded,  no  secondary  action  or  episodes 
were  admitted,  and  the  whole  play  was  shortened  to  a  little  more 
than  two-thirds  of  the  average  French  classic  drama.  Whatever 
originality  Alfieri  possessed  did  not  show  itself  in  the  choice  of  sub- 
jects, which  are  nearly  all  well  known  and  had  often  been  used 
before.  From  Racine  he  took  <Polynice,*  <  Merope  *  had  been  treated 
by  Maffei  and  Voltaire,  and  Shakespeare  had  immortalized  the  story 
of  Brutus.  The  situations  and  events  are  often  conventional;  the 
passions  are  those  familiar  to  the  stage, — jealousy,  revenge,  hatred, 
and  unhappy  love.  And  yet  Alfieri  has  treated  these  subjects  in  a 
way  which  differs  from  all  others,  and  which  stamps  them,  in  a  cer- 
tain sense,  as  his  own.  With  him  all  is  sombre  and  melancholy;  the 
scene  is  utterly  unrelieved  by  humor,  by  the  flowers  of  poetry,  or  by 
that  deep-hearted  sympathy  —  the  pity  of  it  all  —  which  softens  the 
tragic  effect  of  Shakespeare's  plays. 

Alfieri  seemed  to  be  attracted  toward  the  most  horrible  phases  of 
human  life,  and  the  most  terrible  events  of  history  and  tradition. 
The  passions  he  describes  are  those  of  unnatural  love,  of  jealousy 
between  father  and  son,  of  fratricidal  hatred,  or  those  in  which  a 
sense  of  duty  and  love  for  liberty  triumphs  over  ^jk  ties  of  filial 
and  parental  love.  In  treating  the  story  of  the  s^rond  Brutus,  it 
was  not  enough  for  his  purpose  to  have  Caesar  murdered  by  his 
friend;  but,  availing  himself  of  an  unproven  tradition,  he  makes  Bru- 
tus the  son  of  Caesar,  and  thus  a  parricide. 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  his  vocabulary  ■jjfo  see  how  constantly 
he   uses   such   words   as   "atrocious,*   <<horror7"   << terrible,*   << incest,* 


VITTORIO  ALFIERI 


373 


<*  rivers,"  *<  streams,*  *  lakes,*  and  **seas*  of  blood.  The  exclama- 
tion, *01i,  rage!*  occurs  on  almost  every  page.  Death,  murder, 
suicide,  is  the  outcome  of  every  tragedy. 

The  actors  are  few, — in  many  plays  only  four, — and  each  repre- 
sents a  certain  passion.  They  never  change,  but  remain  true  to 
their  characters  from  beginning  to  end.  The  villains  are  monsters 
of  cruelty  and  vice,  and  the  innocent  and  virtuous  are  invariably 
their  victims,  and  succumb  at  last. 

Alfieri's  purpose  in  producing  these  plays  was  not  to  amuse  an 
idle  public,  but  to  promulgate  throughout  his  native  land — then 
under  Spanish  domination  —  the  great  and  lofty  principle  of  liberty 
which  inspired  his  whole  life.  A  deep,  uncompromising  hatred  of 
kings  is  seen  in  every  drama,  where  invariably  a  tyrant  figures  as 
the  villain.  There  is  a  constant  declamation  against  tyranny  and 
slavery.  Liberty  is  portrayed  as  something  dearer  than  life  itself. 
The  struggle  for  freedom  forms  the  subjects  of  five  of  his  plays, — 
<  Virginia,  >  <The  Conspiracy  of  the  Pazzi,*  <Timoleon,*  the  *  First 
Brutus,*  and  the  < Second  Brutus.*  One  of  these  is  dedicated  to 
George  Washington  —  *  Liberator  dell'  America.*  The  warmth  of 
feeling  with  which,  in  the  *  Conspiracy  of  the  Pazzi,*  the  degrada- 
tion and  slavery  of  Florence  under  the  Medici  is  depicted,  betrays 
clearly  Alfieri's  sense  of  the  political  state  of  Italy  in  his  own  day. 
.  And  the  poet  undoubtedly  has  gained  the  gratitude  of  his  country- 
men for  his  voicing  of  that  love  for  liberty  which  has  always  existed 
in  their  hearts. 

Just  as  Alfieri  sought  to  condense  the  action  of  his  plays,  so  he 
strove  for  brevity  and  condensation  in  language.  His  method  of 
composing  was  peculiar.  He  first  sketched  his  play  in  prose,  then 
worked  it  over  in  poetry,  often  spending  years  in  the  process  of 
rewriting  and  polishing.  In  his  indomitable  energy,  his  persistence 
in  labor,  and  his  determination  to  acquire  a  fitting  style,  he  reminds 
us  of  Balzac.  His  brevity  of  language  —  which  shows  itself  most 
strikingly  in  the  omission  of  articles,  and  in  the  number  of  broken 
exclamations  —  gives  his  pages  a  certain  sententiousness,  almost  like 
proverbs.  He  purposely  renounced  all  attempts  at  the  graces  and 
flowers  of  poetry. 

It  is  hard  for  the  lover  of  Shakespearean  tragedy  to  be  just  to 
the  merits  of  Alfieri.  There  is  a  uniformity,  or  even  a  monotony, 
in  these  nineteen  plays,  whose  characters  are  more  or  less  alike, 
whose  method  of  procedure  is  the  same,  whose  sentiments  are 
analogous,  and  in  which  an  activity  devoid  of  incident  hurries  the 
reader  to  an  inevitable  conclusion,  foreseen  from  the  first  act. 

And  yet  the  student  cannot  fail  to  detect  great  tragfic  power, 
sombre  and  often  unnatural,  but  never  producing  that  sense  of  the 


374  VITTORIO  ALFIERI 

ridiculous  which  sometimes  mars  the  effect  of  Victor  Hugo's  dramas. 
The  plots  are  never  obscure,  the  language  is  never  trivial,  and  the 
play  ends  with  a  climax  which  leaves  a  profound  impression. 

The  very  nature  of  Alfieri's  tragedies  makes  it  difficult  to  repre- 
sent him  without  giving  a  complete  play.  The  following  extracts, 
hjowever,  illustrate  admirably  the  horror  and  power  of  his  climaxes. 


^^^Xhccuiy^U.^^^^ 


AGAMEMNON 

[During  the  absence  of  Agamemnon  at  the  siege  of  Troy,  .lEgisthus,  son 
of  Thyestes  and  the  relentless  enemy  of  the  House  of  Atreus,  wins  the  love 
of  Clytemnestra,  and  with  devilish  ingenuity  persuades  her  that  the  only  way 
to  save  her  life  and  his  is  to  slay  her  husband.] 

ACT   IV  — SCENE  I 

iEGISTHUS  —  CLYTEMNESTRA 

yr^GiSTHUS  —  To  be  a  banished  man,  ...  to  fly,  ...  to  die; 
J-\\     .  .  .  These  are  the  only  means  that  I  have  left. 

Thou,  far  from  me,  deprived  of  every  hope 
Of  seeing  me  again,  wilt  from  thy  heart 
Have  quickly  chased  my  image:  great  Atrides 
Will  wake  a  far  superior  passion  there; 
Thou,  in  his  presence,  many  happy  days 
Wilt  thou  enjoy —    These  auspices  may  Heaven 
Confirm —    I  cannot  now  evince  to  thee 
A  surer  proof  of  love  than  by  my  flight;  .  .  . 
A  dreadful,  hard,  irrevocable  proof. 

Clytemnestra — If  there  be  need  of  death,  we  both  will  die! — 
But  is  there  nothing  left  to  try  ere  this? 

^gis. —  Another  plan,  perchance,  e'en  now  remains;  .  .  . 
But  little  worthy  .  .  . 

Cly. — And  it  is — 

yEgis. — Too  cruel. 
Cly. — But  certain? 

ySgis. — Certain,  ah,  too  much  so! 

C^.— How 
Canst  thou  hide  it  from  me? 

yEgis. — How  canst  thou 
Of  me  demand  it? 


VITTORIO  ALFIERI 


375 


Cly. — What  then  may  it  be?  .  .  . 
I  know  not  .  .  .  Speak:  I  am  too  far  advanced; 
I  cannot  now  retract:  perchance  already 
I  am  suspected  by  Atrides;  maybe 
He  has  the  right  already  to  despise  me: 
Hence  do  I  feel  constrained,  e'en  now,  to  hate  him; 
I  cannot  longer  in  his  presence  live; 
I  neither  will,  nor  dare. — Do  thou,  ^gisthus. 
Teach  me  a  means,  whatever  it  may  be, 
A  means  by  which  I  may  withdraw  myself 
From  him  forever. 

yEgis. — Thou  withdraw  thyself 
From  him  ?    I  have  already  said  to  thee 
That  now  'tis  utterly  impossible. 

Cly. — What  other  step  remains  for  me  to  take?  .  .  . 

y^gis. — None. 

Cly. — Now  I  understand  thee. — What  a  flash, 
Oh,  what  a  deadly,  instantaneous  flash 
Of  criminal  conviction  rushes  through 
My  obtuse  mind!    What  throbbing  turbulence 
In  ev'ry  vein  I  feel! — I  understand  thee: 
The  cruel  remedy  .  .  .  the  only  one  .  .  . 
Is  Agamemnon's  life-blood. 

^gis. — I  am  silent  .  .  . 

Cly. —  Yet,  by  thy  silence,  thou  dost  ask  that  blood. 

yEgis. — Nay,  rather  I  forbid  it. —  To  our  love 
And  to  thy  life  (of  mine  I  do  not  speak) 
His  living  is  the  only  obstacle; 
But  yet,  thou  knowest  that  his  life  is  sacred: 
To  love,  respect,  defend  it,  thou  art  bound; 
And  I  to  tremble  at  it. —  Let  us  cease: 
The  hour  advances  now;  my  long  discourse 
Might  give  occasion  to  suspicious  thoughts. — 
At  length  receive  .  .  .  ^gisthus's  last  farewell. 

Cly. —  Ah!  hear  me  .  .  .  Agamemnon  to  our  love  .  .  . 
And  to  thy  life?  .  .  .  Ah,  yes;  there  are,  besides  him. 
No  other  obstacles:  too  certainly 
His  life  is  death  to  us! 

yEgis. — Ah!  do  not  heed 
My  words:  they  spring  from  too  much  love. 

Cly. — And  love 
Revealed  to  me  their  meaning. 

y£gis. —  Hast  thou  not 
Thy  mind  o'erwhelmed  with  horror? 


376  VITTORIO  ALFIERI 

Cly. —  Horror?  .  .  .  yes;  .  ,  , 
But  then  to  part  from  thee!  .  .  . 

^gis. — Wouldst  have  the  courage?  .  .  , 
Cly. —  So  vast  my  love,  it  puts  an  end  to  fear. 
yEgis. —  But  the  king  lives  surrounded  by  his  friends: 
What  sword  would  find  a  passage  to  his  heart? 
Cly. — What  sword? 

^gis. —  Here  open  violence  were  vain. 
Cly. —  Yet,  .  .  .  treachery!  .  .  . 

ySgis. — 'Tis  true,  he  merits  not 
To  be  betrayed,  Atrides:  he  who  lovfes 
His  wife  so  well;  he  who,  enchained  from  Troy, 
In  semblance  of  a  slave  in  fetters,  brought 
Cassandra,  whom  he  loves,  to  whom  he  is 
Himself  a  slave  .  .  . 

aj;._What  do  I  hear! 

^gis. —  Meanwhile 
Expect  that  when  of  thee  his  love  is  wearied, 
He  will  divide  with  her  his  throne  and  bed; 
Expect  that,  to  thy  many  other  wrongs. 
Shame  will  be  added:  and  do  thou  alone 
Not  be  exasperated  at  a  deed 
That  rouses  every  Argive. 

Cly. — What  said'st  thou?  .  .  . 
Cassandra  chosen  as  my  rival  ?  .  .  . 

^gts. —  So 
Atrides  wills. 

Cly. —  Then  let  Atrides  perish. 
yEgis. —  How?    By  what  hand? 

Cly. —  By  mine,  this  very  night. 
Within  that  bed  which  he  expects  to  share 
With  this  abhorred  slave. 

^gis. —  O  Heavens!  but  think  .  .  . 
Cly. —  I  am  resolved  ... 

yEgis. —  Shouldst  thou  repent?  .  .  . 

Cly. — I  do 
That  I  so  long  delayed. 

yEgis. — And  yet  .  .  . 

C7>'.— I'll  do  it: 
I,  e'en  if  thou  wilt  not.     Shall  I  let  thee, 
Who  only  dost  deserve  my  love,  be  dragged 
To  cruel  death  ?    And  shall  I  let  him  live 
Who  cares  not  for  my  love  ?    I  swear  to  thee, 
To-morrow  thou  shalt  be  the  king  in  Argos. 


VITTORIO  ALFIERI 


377 


Nor  shall  my  hand,  nor  shall  my  bosom  tremble  .  .  . 
Btit  who  approaches  ? 

/Cgis. — 'Tis  Electra  .  .  . 

Cly. —  Heavens ! 
Let  ns  avoid  her.    Do  thou  trust  in  me. 

SCENE  n 

ELECTRA  ' 

^/?^/ra— f^gisthus  flies  from  me,  and  he  does  well; 
But  I  behold  that  likewise  from  my  sight 
My  mother  seeks  to  fly.     Infatuated 
And  wretched  mother!    She  could  not  resist 
The  guilty  eagerness  for  the  last  time 
To  see  ^gisthus. —  They  have  here,  at  length. 
Conferred  together  .  .  .  But  ^gisthus  seems 
Too  much  elated,  and  too  confident. 
For  one  condemned  to  exile  .  .  .  She  appeared 
Like  one  disturbed  in  thought,  but  more  possessed 
With  anger  and  resentment  than  with  grief  .  .  . 
O  Heavens!  who  knows  to  what  that  miscreant  base. 
With  his  infernal  arts,  may  have  impelled  her! 
To  what  extremities  have  wrought  her  up!  ...  . 
Now,  now,  indeed,  I  tremble:  what  misdeeds. 
How  black  in  kind,  how  manifold  in  number. 
Do  I  behold!  .  .  .  Yet,  if  I  speak,  I  kill 
My  mother:  ...  If  I'm  silent — ?  .  .  . 

ACT  V  — SCENE  II 

^GISTHUS CLYTEMNESTRA 

jEgis. —  Hast  thou  performed  the  deed? 
Cly. — ^gisthus  .  .  . 

yEgis. —  What  do  I  behold?    O  woman. 
What  dost  thou  here,  dissolved  in  useless  tears? 
Tears  are  unprofitable,  late,  and  vain; 
And  they  may  cost  us  dear. 

Cfy. — Thou  here?  .  .  .  but  how?  .  .  , 
Wretch  that  I  am !  what  have  I  promised  thee  ? 
Wbat  impious  counsel  ?  .  .  . 

yEgis. —  Was  not  thine  the  cotmsel? 
Love  gave  it  thee,  and  fear  recants  it. — Now, 
Since  thou'rt  repentant,  I  am  satisfied; 


378  VITTORIO  ALFIERI 

Soothed  by  reflecting  that  thou  art  not  guilty, 
I  shall  at  least  expire.     To  thee  I  said 
How  difficult  the  enterprise  would  be; 
But  thou,  depending  more  than  it  became  thee 
On  that  which  is  not  in  thee,  virile  courage, 
Daredst  thyself  thy  own  unwarlike  hand 
For  such  a  blow  select.     May  Heaven  permit 
That  the  mere  project  of  a  deed  like  this 
May  not  be  fatal  to  thee!    I  by  stealth, 
Protected  by  the  darkness,  hither  came, 
And  unobserved,  I  hope.     I  was  constrained 
To  bring  the  news  myself,  that  now  my  life 
Is  irrecoverably  forfeited 
To  the  king's  vengeance  .  .  . 

Cly. — ^What  is  this  I  hear? 
Whence  didst  thou  learn  it  ? 

yEgis. — More  than  he  would  wish 
Atrides  hath  discovered  of  our  love; 
And  I  already  from  him  have  received 
A  strict  command  not  to  depart  from  Argos. 
And  further,  I  am  summoned  to  his  presence 
Soon  as  to-morrow  dawns:  thou  seest  well 
That  such  a  conference  to  me  is  death. 
But  fear  not;  for  I  will  all  means  employ 
To  bear  myself  the  undivided  blame. 

Cly. — What  do  I  hear?    Atrides  knows  it  all? 

^gis.-^'H.e  knows  too  much:  I  have  but  one  choice  left; 
It  will  be  best  for  me  to  'scape  by  death, 
By  self-inflicted  death,  this  dangerous  inquest. 
I  save  my  honor  thus;  and  free  myself 
From  an  opprobrious  end.     I  hither  came 
To  give  thee  my  last  warning:  and  to  take 
My  last  farewell.  .  .  .  Oh,  live;  and  may  thy  fame 
Live  with  thee,  unimpeached!    All  thoughts  of  pity  ( 

For  me  now  lay  aside;  if  I'm  allowed 
By  my  own  hand,  for  thy  sake,  to  expire, 
I  am  supremely  blest. 

Cly. —  Alas!  .  .  .  uSigisthus  ... 
What  a  tumultuous  passion  rages  now 
Within  my  bosom,  when  I  hear  thee  speak!  ... 
And  is  it  true?  .  .  .  Thy  death  .  .  . 

y£gts. — Is  more  than  certain.  .  .  . 

Cly. — And  I'm  thy  murderer!  .  .  . 

y£gts. —  I  seek  thy  safety, 


VITTORIO  ALFIERI  ^yo 

Cly. — What  wicked  fury  from  Avemus'  shore, 
iEgisthus,  guides  thy  steps?    Oh,  I  had  died 
Of  grief,  if  I  had  never  seen  thee  more; 
But  guiltless  I  had  died:  spite  of  myself, 
Now,  by  thy  presence,  I  already  am 
Again  impelled  to  this  tremendous  crime.  .  .  . 
An  anguish,  an  unutterable  anguish. 
Invades  my  bones,  invades  my  every  fibre.  .  .  . 
And  can  it  be  that  this  alone  can  save  thee  ?  .  .  , 
But  who  revealed  our  love  ? 

yEgis. —  To  speak  of  thee. 
Who  but  Electra  to  her  father  dare  ? 
Who  to  the  monarch  breathe  thy  name  but  she  ? 
Thy  impious  daughter  in  thy  bosom  thrusts 
The  fatal  sword;  and  ere  she  takes  thy  life. 
Would  rob  thee  of  thy  honor. 

Cly. — And  ought  I 
This  to  believe  ?  .  .  .  Alas !  .  .  . 

^gis. —  Believe  it,  then. 
On  the  authority  of  this  my  sword. 
If  thou  believ'st  it  not  on  mine.     At  least 
I'll  die  in  time.  .  .  . 

Cly. —  O  Heavens!  what  wouldst  thou  do? 
Sheathe,  I  command  thee,  sheathe  that  fatal  sword. — 
Oh,  night  of  horrors!  .  .  .  hear  me  .  .  .  Perhaps  Atrides 
Has  not  resolved.  .  .  . 

^gis. —  What  boots  this  hesitation?  .  .  , 
Atrides  injured,  and  Atrides  king. 
Meditates  nothing  in  his  haughty  mind 
But  blood  and  vengeance.     Certain  is  my  death, 
Thine  is  uncertain:  but  reflect,  O  queen. 
To  what  thou'rt  destined,  if  he  spare  thy  life. 
And  were  I  seen  to  enter  here  alone. 
And  at  so  late  an  hour  .  .  .  Alas,  what  fears 
Harrow  my  bosom  when  I  think  of  thee! 
Soon  will  the  dawn  of  day  deliver  thee 
From  racking  doubt;  that  dawn  I  ne'er  shall  see: 
I  am  resolved  to  die:  .  .  .  — Farewell  .  .  .  forever! 

Cly. —  Stay,  stay  .  .  .  Thou  shalt  not  die. 

yEgis. —  By  no  man's  hand 
Assuredly,  except  my  own:  —  or  thine. 
If  so  thou  wilt.     Ah,  perpetrate  the  deed; 
Kill  me;  and  drag  me,  palpitating  yet. 
Before  thy  judge  austere:  my  blood  will  be 
A  proud  acquittance  for  thee. 


380 


VITTORIO  ALFIERI 

Cly.  —  Madd'ning  thought!  .  .  , 
Wretch  that  1  am !  .  .  .  Shall  I  be  thy  assassin  ?  .  .  . 

^gis. —  Shame  on  thy  hand,  that  cannot  either  kill 
Who  most  adores  thee,  or  who  most  detests  thee! 
Mine  then  must  serve.  .  .  . 

C/y.— Ah!  .  .  .  no.  .  .  . 

JEgis. —  Dost  thou  desire 
Me,  or  Atrides,  dead  ? 

Cly. — Ah!  what  a  choice!  .  .  . 

yEgis. —  Thou  art  compelled  to  choose. 

Cly. —  I  death  inflict  .  .  . 

jEgis. —  Or  death  receive;  when  thou  hast  witnessed  mine. 

Cly. —  Ah,  then  the  crime  is  too  inevitable! 

^gis. —  The  time  now  presses. 

Cly. —  But  .  .  .  the  courage  .  .  .  strength?  .  .  . 

^gis. —  Strength,  courage,  all,  will  love  impart  to  thee. 

Cly. — Must  I  then  with  this  trembling  hand  of  mine 
Plunge  ...  in  my  husband's  heart  .  .  .  the  sword  ?  .  .  . 

j^gis. —  The  blows 
Thou  Vv^ilt  redouble  with  a  steady  hand 
In  the  hard  heart  of  him  who  slew  thy  daughter. 

Cly. —  Far  from  my  hand  I  hurled  the  sword  in  anguish. 

^gis. —  Behold  a  steel,  and  of  another  temper; 
The  clotted  blood-drops  of  Thyestes's  sons 
Still  stiffen  on  its  frame:  do  not  delay 
To  furbish  it  once  more  in  the  vile  blood 
Of  Atreus;  go,  be  quick:  there  now  remain 
But  a  few  moments;  go.     If  awkwardly 
The  blow  thou  aimest,  or  if  thou  shouldst  be 
Again  repentant,  lady,  ere  'tis  struck, 
Do  not  thou  any  more  tow'rd  these  apartments 
Thy  footsteps  turn:  by  my  own  hands  destroyed, 
Here  wouldst  thou  find  me  in  a  sea  of  blood 
Immersed.     Now  go,  and  tremble  not;  be  bold. 
Enter  and  save  us  by  his  death. — 


SCENE  III 
iEGISTHUS     • 

^gis.  — Come  forth, 
Thyestes,  from  profound  Avernus;  come, 
Now  is  the  time;  within  this  palace  now 
Display  thy  dreadful  shade.     A  copious  banquet 
Of  blood  is  now  prepared  for  thee,  enjoy  it; 


VITTORIO  ALPIERI  381 

Already  o'er  the  heart  of  thy  foe's  son 

Hangs  the  suspended  sword;  now,  now,  he  feels  it: 

An  impious  consort  grasps  it;  it  was  fitting 

That  she,  not  I,  did  this:  so  much  more  sweet 

To  thee  will  be  the  vengeance,  as  the  crime 

Is  more  atrocious.  .  .  .     An  attentive  ear 

Lend  to  the  dire  catastrophe  with  me; 

Doubt  not  she  will  accomplish  it:  disdain, 

Love,  terror,  to  the  necessary  crime 

Compel  the  impious  woman. — 

AGAMEMNON   (within) 

Aga. — Treason!    Ah!  .  .  . 
My  wife  ?  .  .  O  Heavens !  .  .  I  die  .  ,  O  traitorous  deed ! 

y£gis. — Die,  thou — yes,  die!     And  thou  redouble. 
The  blows  redouble;  all  the  weapon  hide  [woman. 

Within  his  heart;  shed,  to  the  latest  drop. 
The  blood  of  that  fell  miscreant:  in  our  blood 
He  would  have  bathed  his  hands. 


SCENE  IV 
CLYTEMNESTRA  —  ^ESGISTHUS 

Cly. — What  have  I  done? 
Where  am  I?  .  .  . 

^gis. — Thou  hast  slain  the  tyrant:  now 
At  length  thoii'rt  worthy  of  me. 

Cly. — See,  with  blood 
The  dagger  drips;  .  .  .  my  hands,  my  face,  my  garments. 
All,  all  are  blood  .  .  .  Oh,  for  a  deed  like  this. 
What  vengeance  will  be  wreaked!  ...  I  see  already 
Already  to  my  breast  that  very  steel 
I  see  hurled  back,  and  by  what  hand!    I  freeze, 
I  faint,  I  shudder,  I  dissolve  with  horror. 
My  strength,  my  utterance,  fail  me.     Where  am  I  ? 
What  have  I  done  ?  .  .  .  Alas !  .  .  . 

^gis. — Tremendous  cries 
Resound  on  every  side  throughout  the  palace: 
'Tis  time  to  show  the  Argives  what  I  am. 
And  reap  the  harvest  of  my  long  endurance. 


382  VITTORIO  ALPIERI 

SCENE  V 
ELECTRA  —  ^GISTHUS 

Elec. — It  still  remains  for  thee  to  murder  me, 
Thou  impious,  vile  assassin  of  my  father  .  .  . 
But  what  do  I  behold  ?    O  Heavens !  .  .  .  my  mother  ? .  . 
Flagitious  woman,  dost  thou  grasp  the  sword? 
Didst  thou  commit  the  murder? 

^gis. — Hold  thy  peace. 
Stop  not  my  path  thus;  quickly  I  return; 
Tremble:  for  now  that  I  am  king  of  Argos, 
Far  more  important  is  it  that  I  kill 
Orestes  than  Electra. 


SCENE  VI 
CLYTEMNESTRA — ELECTRA 

Cly. —  Heavens!  .  .  .  Orestes?  .  .  . 
^gisthus,  now  I  know  thee.  .  .  . 

Elec. — Give  it  me: 
Give  me  that  steel. 

C^.— ^gisthus!  .  .  .  Stop!  .  .  .  Wilt  thou 
Murder  my  son  ?    Thou  first  shalt  murder  me. 

SCENE  VII 

ELECTRA 

Elec. —  O  night!  .  .  O  father!  .  .  Ah,  it  was  your  deed, 
Ye  gods,  this  thought  of  mine  to  place  Orestes 
In  safety  first. — Thou  wilt  not  find  him,  traitor. — 
Ah  live,  Orestes,  live:  and  I  will  keep 
This  impious  steel  for  thy  adult  right  hand. 
The  day,  I  hope,  will  come,  when  I  in  Argos 
Shall  see  thee  the  avenger  of  thy  father. 

Translation  of  Edgar  Alfred  Bowring,  Bohn's  Library. 


3S3 

ALFONSO  THE  WISE 

(i 226-1 284) 

|ING  Alfonso,**  records  the  Jesuit  historian,  Mariana,  *was  a 
man  of  great  sense,  but  more  fit  to  be  a  scholar  than  a 
king;  for  whilst  he  studied  the  heavens  and  the  stars,  he 
lost  the  earth  and  his  kingdom.*  Certainly  it  is  for  his  services  to 
letters,  and  not  for  political  or  military  successes,  that  the  meditative 
son  of  the  valorous  Ferdinand  the  Saint  and  the  beautiful  Beatrice 
of  Swabia  will  be  remembered.  The  father  conquered  Seville,  and 
displaced  the  enterprising  and  infidel  Moors  with  orthodox  and  indo- 
lent Christians.  The  son  could  not  keep  what  his  sire  had  grasped. 
Born  in  1226,  the  fortunate  young  prince,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five, 
was  proclaimed  king  of  the  newly  conquered  and  united  Castile  and 
Leon.  He  was  very  young :  he  was  everywhere  admired  and  honored 
for  skill  in  war,  for  learning,  and  for  piety;  he  was  everywhere  loved 
for  his  heritage  of  a  great  name  and  his  kindly  and  gracious  manners. 

In  the  first  year  of  his  reign,  however,  he  began  debasing  the 
coinage, — a  favorite  device  of  needy  monarchs  in  his  day, — and  his 
people  never  forgave  the  injury.  He  coveted,  naturally  enough,  the 
throne  of  the  Empire,  for  which  he  was  long  a  favorite  candidate; 
and  for  twenty  years  he  wasted  time,  money,  and  purpose,  heart  and 
hope,  in  pursuit  of  the  vain  bauble.  His  kingdom  fell  into  confus- 
ion, his  eldest  son  died,  his  second  son  Sancho  rebelled  against  him 
and  finally  deposed  him.  Courageous  and  determined  to  the  last, 
defying  the  leagfue  of  Church  and  State  against  him,  he  appealed  to 
the  king  of  Morocco  for  men  and  money  to  reinstate  his  fortunes. 

In  Ticknor's  *  History  of  Spanish  Literature*  may  be  found  his 
touching  letter  to  De  Guzman  at  the  Moorish  court.  He  is,  like 
Lear,  poor  and  discrowned,  but  not  like  him,  weak.  His  prelates  have 
stirred  up  strife,  his  nobles  have  betrayed  him.  If  Heaven  wills,  he 
is  ready  to  pay  generously  for  help.  If  not,  says  the  royal  philoso- 
pher, still,  generosity  and  loyalty  exalt  the  soul  that  cherishes  them. 

« Therefore,  my  cousin,  Alonzo  Perez  de  Guzman,  so  treat  with  your 
master  and  my  friend  [the  king  of  Morocco]  that  he  may  lend  me,  on  my 
richest  crown  and  on  the  jewels  in  it,  as  much  as  shall  seem  good  to  him: 
and  if  you  should  be  able  to  obtain  his  help  for  me,  do  not  deprive  me  of  it, 
which  I  think  you  will  not  do;  rather  I  hold  that  all  the  good  offices  which 
my  master  may  do  me,  by  your  hand  they  will  come,  and  may  the  hand  of 
God  be  with  you. 

« Given  in  my  only  loyal  city  of  Seville,  the  thirtieth  year  of  my  reig^ 
and  the  first  of  my  misfortunes. 

«  The  King.» 


384  ALFONSO  THE  WISE 

In  his  **only  loyal  city'*  the  broken  man  remained,  until  the  Pope 
excommunicated  Sancho,  and  till  neighboring  towns  began  to  capit- 
ulate. But  he  had  been  wounded  past  healing.  There  was  no  med- 
icine for  a  mind  diseased,  no  charm  to  raze  out  the  written  troubles 
of  the  brain.  <^He  fell  ill  in  Seville,  so  that  he  drew  nigh  unto 
death.  .  .  .  And  when  the  sickness  had  run  its  course,  he  said 
before  them  all:  that  he  pardoned  the  Infante  Don  Sancho,  his  heir, 
all  that  out  of  malice  he  had  done  against  him,  and  to  his  subjects 
the  wrong  they  had  wrought  towards  him,  ordering  that  letters  con- 
firming the  same  should  be  written  —  sealed  with  his  golden  seal,  so 
that  all  his  subjects  should  be  certain  that  he  had  put  away  his 
quarrel  with  them,  and  desired  that  no  blame  whatever  should  rest 
upon  them.  And  when  he  had  said  this,  he  received  the  body  of 
God  with  great  devotion,  and  in  a  little  while  gave  up  his  soul  to 
God.» 

This  was  in  1284,  when  he  was  fifty-eight  years  old.  At  this  age, 
had  a  private  lot  been  his, — that  of  a  statesman,  jurist,  man  of  sci- 
ence, annalist,  philosopher,  troubadour,  mathematician,  historian, 
poet,  — he  would  but  have  entered  his  golden  prime,  rich  in  promise, 
fruitful  in  performance.  Yet  Alfonso,  uniting  in  himself  all  these 
vocations,  seemed  at  his  death  to  have  left  behind  him  a  wide  waste 
of  opportunities,  a  dreary  dearth  of  accomplishment.  Looking  back, 
however,  it  is  seen  that  the  balance  swings  even.  While  his  kingdom 
was  slipping  away,  he  was  conquering  a  wider  domain.  He  was 
creating  Spanish  Law,  protecting  the  followers  of  learning,  cherish- 
ing the  universities,  restricting  privilege,  breaking  up  time-honored 
abuses.  He  prohibited  the  use  of  Latin  in  public  acts.  He  adopted 
the  native  tongue  in  all  his  own  works,  and  thus  gave  to  Spanish  an 
honorable  eminence,  while  French  and  German  struggled  long  for  a 
learning  from  scholars,  and  English  was  to  wait  a  hundred  years  for 
the  advent  of  Dan  Chaucer. 

Greatest  achievement  of  all,  he  codified  the  common  law  of  Spain 
in  <Las  Siete  Partidas*  (The  Seven  Parts).  Still  accepted  as  a  legal 
authority  in  the  kingdom,  the  work  is  much  more  valuable  as  a  com- 
pendium of  general  knowledge  than  as  an  exposition  of  law.  The 
studious  king  with  astonishing  catholicity  examined  alike  both  Christ- 
ian and  Arabic  traditions,  customs,  and  codes,  paying  a  scholarly 
respect  to  the  greatness  of  a  hostile  language  and  literature.  This 
meditative  monarch  recognized  that  public  office  is  a  public  trust, 
and  wrote:  — 

« Vicars  of  God  are  the  kings,  each  one  in  his  kingdom,  placed  over  the 
people  to  maintain  them  in  justice  and  in  truth.  They  have  been  called  the 
heart  and  soul  of  the  people.  For  as  the  soul  lies  in  the  heart  of  men,  and 
by  it  the  body  lives  and  is  maintained,  so  in  the  king  lies  justice,  which  is 
the  life  and  maintenance  of  the  people  of  his  lordship.     .     .     , 


ALFONSO  THE  WISE 


385 


''And  let  the  king  griard  the  thoughts  of  his  heart  in  three  manners- 
firstly  let  him  not  desire  nor  gpreatly  care  to  have  superfluous  and  wortJiless 
honors.  Superfluous  and  worthless  honors  the  king  ought  not  to  desire.  For 
that  which  is  beyond  necessity  cannot  last,  and  being  lost,  and  come  short 
of,  turas  to  dishonor.  Moreover,  the  wise  men  have  said  that  it  is  no  less  a 
virtue  for  a  man  to  keep  that  which  he  has  than  to  gain  that  which  he  has 
not;  because  keeping  comes  of  judgment,  but  gain  of  good  fortune.  And  the 
king  who  keeps  his  honor  in  such  a  manner  that  every  day  and  by  all  means 
it  is  increased,  lacking  nothing,  and  does  not  lose  that  which  he  has  for  that 
which  he  desires  to  have,  —  he  is  held  for  a  man  of  right  judgment,  who 
loves  his  own  people,  and  desires  to  lead  them  to  all  good.  And  God  will 
keep  him  in  this  world  from  the  dishonoring  of  men,  and  in  the  next  from 
the  dishonor  of  the  wicked  in  heU.» 

Besides  the  *  Siete  Partidas,*  the  royal  philosopher  was  the  author, 
or  compiler,  of  a  *  Bopk  of  Hunting ' ;  a  treatise  on  Chess ;  a  sys- 
tem of  law,  the  *Fuero  Castellano*  (Spanish  Code), — an  attempt  to 
check  the  monstrous  irregularities  of  municipal  privilege ;  *  La  Gran 
Conquista  d'Ultramar  (The  Great  Conquest  Beyond  the  Sea),  an 
account  of  the  wars  of  the  Crusades,  which  is  the  earliest  known 
specimen  of  Castilian  prose;  and  several  smaller  works,  now  col- 
lected under  the  general  title  of  *■  Opuscules  Legales '  (Minor  Legal 
Writings).  It  was  long  supposed  that  he  wrote  the  *  Tesoro  *  (The- 
saurus), a  curious  medley  of  ignorance  and  superstition,  much  of  it 
silly,  and  all  of  it  curiously  inconsistent  with  the  acknowledged  char- 
acter of  the  enlightened  King.  Modern  scholarship,  however,  dis- 
cards this  petty  treatise  from  the  list  of  his  productions. 

His  *Tablas  Alfonsinas*  (Alfonsine  Tables),  to  which  Chaucer 
refers  in  the  * Frankeleine's  Tale,'  though  curiously  mystical,  yet  were 
really  scientific,  and  rank  among  the  most  famous  of  mediaeval  books. 
Alfonso  had  the  courage  and  the  wisdom  to  recall  to  Toledo  the 
heirs  and  successoia  of  the  great  Arabian  philosophers  and  the 
learned  Rabbis,  who  had  been  banished  by  religious  fanaticism,  and 
there  to  establish  a  permanent  council  —  a  mediaeval  Academy  of 
Sciences  —  which  devoted  itself  to  the  study  of  the  heavens  and  the 
making  of  astronomical  calculations.  *' This  was  the  first  time,*  says 
the  Spanish  historian,  <'that  in  barbarous  times  the  Republic  of 
Letters  was  invited  to  contemplate  a  g^eat  school  of  learning, —  men 
occupied  through  many  years  in  rectifying  the  old  planetary  observa- 
tions, in  disputing  about  the  most  abstruse  details  of  this  science,  in 
constructing  new  instruments,  and  observing,  by  means  of  them,  the 
courses  of  the  stars,  their  declensions,  their  ascensions,  eclipses,  longi- 
tudes, and  latitudes."    It  was  the  vision  of  Roger  Bacon  fulfilled. 

At  his  own  expense,  for  years  together,  the  King  entertained  in 
his  palace  at  Burgos,  that  their  knowledge  might  enrich  the  nation, 
not  only  certain  free-thinking  followers  of  Averroes  and  Avicebron, 
1 — 25 


^86  ALFONSO  THE  WISE 

but  infidel  disciples  of  tKe  Koran,  and  learned  Rabbis  who  denied  the 
true  faith.  That  creed  must  not  interfere  with  deed,  was  an  aston- 
ishing mental  attitude  for  the  thirteenth  century,  and  invited  a  gen- 
eral suspicion  of  the  King's  orthodoxy.  His  religious  sense  was 
really  strong,  however,  and  appears  most  impressively  in  the  <  Can- 
tigas  a  la  Vergen  Maria'  (Songs  to  the  Virgin),  which  were  sung 
over  his  grave  by  priests  and  acolytes  for  hundreds  of  years.  They 
are  sometimes  melancholy  and  sometimes  joyous,  always  simple  and 
genuine,  and,  written  in  Galician,  reflect  the  trustful  piety  and  hap- 
piness of  his  youth  in  remote  hill  provinces  where  the  thought  of 
empire  had  not  penetrated.  It  was  his  keen  intelligence  that  ex- 
pressed itself  in  the  saying  popularly  attributed  to  him,  "  Had  I  been 
present  at  the  creation,  I  might  have  offered  some  useful  sugges- 
tions.'^  It  was  his  reverent  spirit  that  made  mention  in  his  will  of 
the  sacred  songs  as  the  testimony  to  his  faith.  So  lived  and  died 
Alfonso  the  Tenth,  the  father  of  Spanish  literature,  and  the  reviver 
of  Spanish  learning. 


«WHAT  MEANETH  A  TYRANT,  AND  HOW  HE  USETH  HIS  POWER 
IN  A  KINGDOM  WHEN   HE   HATH   OBTAINED    IT» 

«  A  TYRANT,''  says  this  law,  ^^doth  signify  a  cruel  lord,  who, 
f\  by  force  or  by  craft,  or  by  treachery,  hath  obtained 
power  over  any  realm  or  country;  and  such  men  be  of 
such  nature,  that  when  once  they  have  grown  strong  in  the 
land,  they  love  rather  to  work  their  own  profit,  though  it  be  in 
harm  of  the  land,  than  the  common  profit  of  all,  for  they  always 
live  in  an  ill  fear  of  losing  it.  And  that  they  may  be  able  to 
fulfill  this  their  purpose  unincumbered,  the  wise  of  old  have  said 
that  they  use  their  power  against  the  people  in  three  manners. 
The  first  is,  that  they  strive  that  those  under  their  mastery  be 
ever  ignorant  and  timorous,  because,  when  they  be  such,  they 
may  not  be  bold  to  rise  against  them,  nor  to  resist  their  wills; 
and  the  second  is,  that  they  be  not  kindly  and  united  among 
themselves,  in  such  wise  that  they  trust  not  one  another,  for 
while  they  live  in  disagreement,  they  shall  not  dare  to  make  any 
discourse  against  their  lord,  for  fear  faith  and  secrecy  should  not 
be  kept  among  themselves;  and  the  third  way  is,  that  they  strive 
to  make  them  poor,  and  to  put  them  upon  great  undertakings, 
which  they  never  can  finish,  whereby  they  may  have  so  much 
narm  that  it  may  never  come  into  their  hearts  to  devise  any- 
thing against  their  ruler.     And  above  all  this,  have  tyrants  ever 


ALFONi>0  THE  WXSE  ^gy 

Striven  to  make  spoil  of  the  strong  and  to  destroy  the  wise;  and 
have  forbidden  fellowship  and  assemblies  of  men  in  their  land, 
and  striven  always  to  know  what  men  said  or  did;  and  do  trust 
their  counsel  and  the  guard  of  their  person  rather  to  foreigners, 
who  will  serve  at  their  will,  than  to  them  of  the  land,  who 
serve  from  oppression.  And  moreover,  we  say  that  though  any 
man  may  have  gained  master^'  of  a  kingdom  by  an)'  of  the  law- 
ful means  whereof  we  have  spoken  in  the  laws  going  before  this, 
yet,  if  he  use  his  power  ill,  in  the  ways  whereof  we  speak  in 
this  law,  him  may  the  people  still  call  tyrant;  for  he  tumeth  his 
mastery  which  was  rightful  into  wrongful,  as  Aristotle  hath  said 
in  the  book  which  treateth  of  the  rule  and  government  of  king- 
doms. • 

FrcMn  <Las  Siete  Partidas,>  quoted  in  Ticknoi's  <  Spanish  Literature.* 

ON  THE  TURKS.  AND  WHY  THEY  ARE  SO  CALLED 

THE  ancient  histories  which  describe  the  early  inhabitants  of 
the  East  and  their  various  languages  show  the  origin  of 
each  tribe  or  nation,  or  whence  they  came,  and  for  what 
reason  they  waged  war,  and  how  they  were  enabled  to  conquer 
the  former  lords  of  the  land.  Now  in  these  histories  it  is  told 
that  the  Turks,  and  also  the  allied  race  called  Turcomans,  were 
all  of  one  land  originally,  and  that  these  names  were  taken  from 
two  rivers  which  flow  through  the  territory  whence  these  people 
came,  which  lies  in  the  direction  of  the  rising  of  the  sun,  a  lit- 
tle toward  the  north;  and  that  one  of  these  rivers  bore  the  name 
of  Turco,  and  the  other  ikiani:  and  finally  that  for  this  reason 
the  two  tribes  which  dwelt  on  the  banks  of  these  two  rivers  came 
to  be  commonly  kno\NTi  as  Turcomanos  or  Turcomans.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  are  those  who  assert  that  because  a  portion  of 
the  Turks  lived  among  the  Comanos  (Comans)  they  accordingly, 
in  course  of  time,  received  the  name  of  Turcomanos;  but  the 
majority  adhere  to  the  reason  already  given.  However  this  may 
be,  the  Turks  and  the  Turcomans  belong  both  to  the  same  fam- 
ily, and  follow  no  other  life  than  that  of  wandering  over  the 
coimtr}',  driving  their  herds  from  one  good  pasture  to  another, 
and  taking  with  them  their  wives  and  their  children  and  all 
their  property,  including  money  as  well  as  flocks. 

The  Turks  did  not  dwell  then  in  houses,  but  in  tents  made  of 
skins,  as  do  in  these  days  the  Comanos  and   Tartars;   and  when 


38S 


ALFONSO  THE  WISE 


they  had  to  move  from  one  place  to  another,  they  divided  them- 
selves into  companies  according  to  their  different  dialects,  and 
chose  a  cabdillo  (judge),  who  settled  their  disputes,  and  rendered 
justice  to  those  who  deserved  it.  And  this  nomadic  race  culti- 
vated no  fields,  nor  vineyards,  nor  orchards,  nor  arable  lands  of 
any  kind;  neither  did  they  buy  or  sell  for  money:  but  traded 
their  flocks  among  one  another,  and  also  their  milk  and  cheese, 
and  pitched  their  tents  in  the  places  where  they  found  the  best 
pasturage;  and  when  the  grass  was  exhausted,  they  sought  fresh 
herbage  elsewhere.  And  whenever  they  reached  the  border  of  a 
strange  land,  they  sent  before  them  special  envoys,  the  most 
worthy  and  honorable  of  their  men,  to  the  kings  or  lords  of 
such  countries,  to  ask  of  them  the  privilege  of  pasturage  on  their 
lands  for  a  space;  for  which  they  were  willing  to  pay  such  rent 
or  tax  as  might  be  agreed  upon.  After  this  manner  they  lived 
among  each  nation  in  whose  territory  they  happened  to  be. 

From  <La  Gran  Conquista  de  Ultramar,  >  Chapter  xiii. 


TO  THE  MONTH  OF  MARY 
From  the  <Cantigas> 

WELCOME,  O  May,  yet  once  again  we  greet  thee  I 
So  alway  praise  we  her,  the  Holy  Mother, 
Who  prays  to  God  that  he  shall  aid  us  ever 
Against  our  foes,  and  to  us  ever  listen. 
Welcome,  O  May!  loyally  art  thou  welcome! 
So  alway  praise  we  her,  the  Mother  of  kindness. 
Mother  who  alway  on  us  taketh  pity, 
Mother  who  guardeth  us  from  woes  unnumbered. 
Welcome,  O  May!  welcome,  O  month  well  favored  1 
So  let  us  ever  pray  and  offer  praises 
To  her  who  ceases  not  for  us,  for  sinners. 
To  pray  to  God  that  we  from  woes  be  g^uarded. 
Welcome,  O  May!  O  joyous  month  and  stainless! 
So  will  we  ever  pray  to  her  who  gaineth 
Grace  from  her  Son  for  us,  and  gives  each  morning 
Force  that  by  us  the  Moors  from  Spain  are  driven. 
Welcome,  O  May,  of  bread  and  wine  the  giver! 
Pray  then  to  her,  for  in  her  arms,  an  infant 
She  bore  the  Lord!  she  points  us  on  our  journey. 
The  journey  that  to  her  will  bear  us  quickly  I 


3^9 

ALFRED  THE  GREAT 
(849-901) 

[X  THE  Ashmolean  Museum  at  Oxford  may  be  seen  an  antique 
jewel,  consisting  of  an  enameled  figure  in  red,  blue,  and 
gfreen,  enshrined  in  a  golden  frame,  and  bearing  the  legend 
"Alfred  mec  heht  gewjTcean*  (Alfred  ordered  me  made).  This 
was  discovered  in  1693  in  Newton  Park,  near  Athelney,  and  through 
it  one  is  enabled  to  touch  the  far-away  life  of  a  thousand  years  ago. 
But  greater  and  more  imperishable  than  this  archaic  gem  is  the  gift 
that  the  noble  King  left  to  the  English  nation — a  gift  that  affects 
the  entire  race  of  English-speaking  people.  For  it  was  Alfred  who 
laid  the  foundations  for  a  national  literature. 

Alfred,  the  younger  son  of  Ethelwulf,  king  of  the  West  Saxons, 
and  Osberga,  daughter  of  his  cup-bearer,  was  bom  in  the  palace  at 
Wantage  in  the  year  849.  He  grew  up  at  his  father's  court,  a  migra- 
tory one,  that  moved  from  Kent  to  Devonshire  and  from  Wales  to 
the  Isle  of  Wight  whenever  events,  raids,  or  the  Witan  (Parliament) 
demanded.  At  an  early  age  Alfred  was  sent  to  pay  homage  to  the 
Pope  in  Rome,  taking  such  gifts  as  rich  vessels  of  gold  and  silver, 
silks,  and  hangings,  which  show  that  Saxons  lacked  nothing  in 
treasure.  In  855  Etheiwulf  visited  Rome  with  his  young  son,  bearing 
more  costly  presents,  as  well  as  munificent  sums  for  the  shrine  of 
St.  Peter's;  and  returning  by  way  of  France,  they  stopped  at  the 
court  of  Charles  the  Bold.  Once  again  in  his  home,  young  Alfred 
applied  himself  to  his  education.  He  became  a  marvel  of  courage  at 
Jthe  chase,  proficient  in  the  use  of  arms,  excelled  in  athletic  sports, 
was  zealous  in  his  religious  duties,  and  athirst  for  knowledge.  His 
accomplishments  were  many;  and  when  the  guests  assembled  in  the 
great  hall  to  make  the  walls  ring  with  their  laughter  over  cups  of 
mead  and  ale,  he  could  take  his  turn  with  the  harpers  and  minstrels 
to  improvise  one  of  those  sturdy  bold  ballads  that  stir  the  blood 
to-day  with  their  stately  rhythms  and  noble  themes. 

Ethelwulf  died  in  858,  and  eight  years  later  only  two  sons,  Ethel- 
red  and  Alfred,  were  left  to  cope  with  the  Danish  invaders.  They 
won  victory  after  victory,  upon  which  the  old  chroniclers  love  to 
dwell,  pausing  to  describe  wild  frays  among  the  chalk-hills  and 
dense  forests,  which  afforded  convenient  places  to  hide  men  and  to 
bury  spoils. 

Ethelred  died  in  871,  and  the  throne  descended  to  Alfred.  His 
kingdom  was  in  a  terrible  condition,  for  Wessex,  Kent.  Mercia,  Sus- 
sex, and  Surrey  lay  at   the  mercy  of  the  marauding  enemy.     "The 


-OQ  ALFRED   THE   GREAT 

land,'^  says  an  old  writer,  ^<was  as  the  Garden  of  Eden  before  tViem, 
and  behind  them  a  desolate  wilderness.*  London  was  in  ruins;  the 
Danish  standard,  with  its  black  Raven,  fluttered  everywhere ;  and  the 
forests  were  filled  with  outposts  and  spies  of  the  << pagan  army.** 
There  was  nothing  for  the  King  to  do  but  gather  his  men  and  dash 
into  the  fray  to  <<let  the  hard  steel  ring  upon  the  high  helmet.  >> 
Time  after  time  the  Danes  are  overthrown,  but,  like  the  heads  of  the 
fabled  Hydra,  they  grow  and  flourish  after  each  attack.  They  have 
one  advantage :  they  know  how  to  command  the  sea,  and  numerous 
as  the  waves  that  their  vessels  ride  so  proudly  and  well,  the  invaders 
arrive  and  quickly  land  to  plunder  and  slay. 

Alfred,  although  but  twenty-five,  sees  the  need  for  a  navy,  and  in 
875  gathers  a  small  fleet  to  meet  the  ships  of  the  enemy,  wins  one 
prize,  and  puts  the  rest  to  flight.  The  chroniclers  now  relate  that  he 
fell  into  disaster  and  became  a  fugitive  in  Selwood  Forest,  while 
Guthrum  and  his  host  were  left  free  to  ravage.  From  this  period 
date  the  legends  of  the  King's  visit  in  disguise  to  the  hut  of  the 
neat-herd,  and  his  burning  the  bread  he  was  set  to  watch;  his  pene- 
trating into  the  camp  of  the  Danes  and  entertaining  Guthrum  by  his 
minstrelsy  while  discovering  his  plans  and  force;  the  vision  of  St. 
Cuthbert;  and  the  fable  of  his  calling  five  hundred  men  by  the 
winding  of  his  horn. 

Not  long  after  he  was  enabled  to  emerge  from  the  trials  of  exile 
in  Athelney ;  and  according  to  Asser,  <<  In  the  seventh  week  after 
Easter,  he  rode  to  Egbert's  Stone  in  the  eastern  part  of  Selwood  or 
the  Great  Wood,  called  in  the  old  British  language  Coit-mawr. 
Here  he  was  met  by  all  the  neighboring  folk  of  Somersetshire,  Wilt- 
shire, and  Hampshire,  who  had  not  for  fear  of  the  Pagans  fled 
beyond  the  sea;  and  when  they  saw  the  king  alive  after  such  great 
tribulation,  they  received  him,  as  he  deserved,  with  joy  and  ac- 
clamations and  all  encamped  there  for  the  night."  Soon  afterward 
he  made  a  treaty  with  the  Danes,  and  became  king  of  the  whole  of 
England  south  of  the  Thames. 

It  was  now  Alfred's  work  to  reorganize  his  kingdom,  to  strengthen 
the  coast  defenses,  to  rebuild  London,  to  arrange  for  a  standing 
army,  and  to  make  wise  laws  for  the  preservation  of  order  and 
peace;  and  when  all  this  was  accomplished,  he  turned  his  attention 
to  the  establishment  of  monasteries  and  colleges.  *^  In  the  mean- 
time,*^ says  old  Asser,  <nhe  King,  during  the  frequent  wars  and 
other  trammels  of  this  present  life,  the  invasions  of  the  Pagans,  and 
his  own  daily  infirmities  of  body,  continued  to  carry  on  the  govern- 
ment, and  to  exercise  hunting  in  all  its  branches;  to  teach  his 
workers  in  gold  and  artificers  of  all  kinds,  his  falconers,  hawkers, 
and  dog-keepers,   to  build  houses  majestic  and  good,  beyond  all   the 


ALFRED  THE  GREAT  3^1 

precedents  of  his  ancestors,  by  his  new  mechanical  inventions,  to 
recite  the  Saxon  books,  and  more  especially  to  learn  by  heart  thq 
Saxon  poems,  and  to  make  others  learn  them  also;  for  he  alone 
never  desisted  from  studying,  most  diligently,  to  the  best  of  his 
ability;  he  attended  the  mass  and  other  daily  services  of  religion; 
he  was  frequent  in  psalm-singing  and  prayer,  at  the  proper  hours, 
both  of  the  night  and  of  the  day.  He  also  went  to  the  churches,  as 
we  have  already  said,  in  the  night-time,  to  pray,  secretly  and  un- 
known to  his  courtiers;  he  bestowed  alms  and  largesses  both  on  his 
own  people  and  on  foreigners  of  all  countries;  he  was  affable  and 
pleasant  to  all,  and  curious  to  investigate  things  unknown.  >> 

As  regards  Alfred's  personal  contribution  to  literature,  it  may  be 
said  that  over  and  above  all  disputed  matters  and  certain  lost  works, 
they  represent  a  most  valuable  and  voluminous  assortment  due 
directly  to  his  own  royal  and  scholarly  pen.  History,  secular  and 
churchly,  laws  and  didactic  literature,  were  his  field;  and  though  it 
would  seem  that  his  actual  period  of  composition  did  not  much  exceed 
ten  years,  yet  he  accomplished  a  vast  deal  for  any  man,  especially  any 
busy  sovereign  and  soldier. 

An  ancient  writer,  Ethelwerd,  says  that  he  translated  many  books 
from  Latin  into  Saxon,  and  William  of  Malmesbury  goes  so  far  as  to 
say  that  he  translated  into  Anglo-Saxon  almost  all  the  literature  of 
Rome.  Undoubtedly  the  general  condition  of  education  was  deplor- 
able, and  Alfred  felt  this  deeply.  « Formerly, >>  he  writes,  "men 
came  hither  from  foreign  lands  to  seek  instruction,  and  now  when 
we  desire  it,  we  can  only  obtain  it  from  abroad.'^  Like  Charlemagne 
he  drew  to  his  court  famous  scholars,  and  set  many  of  them  to  work 
writing  chronicles  and  translating  important  Latin  books  into  Anglo- 
Saxon,  Among  these  was  the  *  Pastoral  Care  of  Pope  Gregory,  >  to 
which  he  wrote  the  Preface;  but  with  his  own  hand  he  translated 
the  *■  Consolations  of  Philosophy,  *  by  Boethius,  two  manuscripts  of 
which  still  exist.  In  this  he  frequently  stops  to  introduce  observations 
and  comments  of  his  own.  Of  greater  value  was  his  translation  of 
the  *■  History  of  the  World,  *  by  Orosius,  which  he  abridged,  and  to 
which  he  added  new  chapters  giving  the  record  of  coasting  voyages 
in  the  north  of  Europe.  This  is  preserved  in  the  Cotton  MSS.  in  the 
British  Museum.  His  fourth  translation  was  the  <  Ecclesiastical  His- 
tory of  the  English  Nation,*  by  Bede.  To  this  last  may  be  added 
the  <  Blossom  Gatherings  from  St.  Augustine,*  and  many  minor  com- 
positions in  prose  and  verse,  translations  from  the  Latin  fables  and 
poems,  and  his  own  note-book,  in  which  he  jots,  with  what  may  be 
termed  a  journalistic  instinct,  scenes  that  he  had  witnessed,  such  as 
Aldhelm  standing  on  the  bridge  instructing  the  people  on  Sunday 
afternoons;  bits  of  philosophy;  and  such  reflections   as  the  following. 


202  ALFRED   THE   GREAT 

which  remind  one  of  Marcus  Aurelius:  —  "Desirest  thou  power?  But 
thou  shalt  never  obtain  it  without  sorrows  —  sorrows  from  strange 
folk,  and  yet  keener  sorrows  from  thine  own  kindred ;  ^^  and  <*  Hard- 
ship and  sorrow!  Not  a  king  but  would  wish  to  be  without  these  if 
he  could.  But  I  know  that  he  cannot.'^  Alfred's  value  to  literature 
is  this:  he  placed  by  the  side  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry, —  consisting  of 
two  great  poems,  Caedmon's  great  -song  of  the  <  Creation  *  and  Cyne- 
wulf's  < Nativity  and  Life  of  Christ,*  and  the  unwritten  ballads  passed 
from  lip  to  lip, — four  immense  translations  from  Latin  into  Anglo- 
Saxon  prose,  which  raised  English  from  a  mere  spoken  dialect  to  a 
true  language.  From  his  reign  date  also  the  famous  Anglo-Saxon 
Chronicle  and  the  Anglo-Saxon  Gospels;  and  a  few  scholars  are 
tempted  to  class  the  magnificent  ^Beowulf*  among  the  works  of  this 
period.  At  any  rate,  the  great  literary  movement  that  he  inaugurated 
lasted  until  the  Norman  Conquest. 

In  893  the  Danes  once  more  disturbed  King  Alfred,  but  he  foiled 
them  at  all  points,  and  they  left  in  897  to  harry  England  no  more 
for  several  generations.  In  901  he  died,  having  reigned  for  thirty 
years  in  the  honor  and  affection  of  his  subjects.  Freeman  in  his 
*  Norman  Conquest'  says  that  "no  other  man  on  record  has  ever  so 
thoroughly  united  all  the  virtues  both  of  the  ruler  and  of  the  private 
man.**  Bishop  Asser,  his  contemporary,  has  left  a  half-mythical 
eulogy,  and  William  of  Malmesbury,  Roger  of  Wendover,  Matthew 
of  Westminster,  and  John  Brompton  talk  of  him  fully  and  freely. 
Sir  John  Spellman  published  a  quaint  biography  in  Oxford  in  1678, 
followed  by  Powell's  in  1634,  and  Bicknell's  in  1777.  The  modern 
lives  are  by  Giles,  Pauli,  and  Hughes, 


KING  ALFRED   ON   KING-CRAFT 
Comment  in  his  Translation  of  Boethius's  < Consolations  of  Philosophy* 

THE  Mind  then  answered  and  thus  said:  O  Reason,  indeed 
thou  knowest  that  covetousness  and  the  greatness  of  this 
earthly  power  never  well  pleased  me,  nor  did  I  altogether 
very  much  yearn  after  this  earthly  authority.  But  nevertheless  I 
was  desirous  of  materials  for  the  work  which  I  was  commanded 
to  perform;  that  was,  that  I  might  honorably  and  fitly  guide  and 
exercise  the  power  which  was  committed  to  me.  Moreover,  thou 
knowest  that  no  man  can  show  any  skill  nor  exercise  or  control 
any  power,  without  tools  and  materials.  There  are  of  every 
craft  the  materials  without  which  man  cannot  exercise  the  craft. 
These,  then,  are   a  king's  materials  and  his  tools   to  reign  with: 


ALFRED  THE  GREAT  393 

that  he  have  his  land  well  peopled;  he  must  have  prayer-men, 
and  soldiers,  and  workmen.  Thou  knowest  that  without  these 
tools  no  king  can  show  his  craft.  This  is  also  his  materials 
which  he  must  have  besides  the  tools:  provisions  for  the  three 
classes.  This  is,  then,  their  provision:  land  to  inhabit,  and  gifts 
and  weapons,  and  meat,  and  ale,  and  clothes,  and  whatsoever  is 
necessary  for  the  three  classes.  He  cannot  without  these  pre- 
serve the  tools,  nor  without  the  tools  accomplish  any  of  those 
things  which  he  is  commanded  to  perform.  Therefore,  I  was 
desirous  of  materials  wherewith  to  exercise  the  power,  that  my 
talents  and  power  should  not  be  forgotten  and  concealed.  For 
every  craft  and  every  power  soon  becomes  old,  and  is  passed 
over  in  silence,  if  it  be  without  wisdom:  for  no  man  can  accom- 
plish any  craft  without  wisdom.  Because  whatsoever  is  done 
through  folly,  no  one  can  ever  reckon  for  craft.  This  is  now 
especially  to  be  said:  that  I  wished  to  live  honorably  whilst  I 
lived,  and  after  my  life,  to  leave  to  the  men  who  were  after  me, 
my  memory  in  good  works. 

ALFRED'S    PREFACE    TO    THE    VERSION    OF    POPE    GREGORY'S 

<  PASTORAL  CARE> 

KING  Alfred  bids  greet  Bishop  Waerferth  with  his  words  lov- 
ingly  and  with  friendship;  and  I  let  it  be  known  to  thee 
that  it  has  very  often  come  into  my  mind,  what  wise  men 
there  formerly  were  throughout  England,  both  of  sacred  and  sec- 
ular orders;  and  what  happy  times  there  were  then  throughout 
England;  and  how  the  kings  who  had  power  of  the  nation  in 
those  days  obeyed  God  and  his  ministers;  and  they  preserved 
peace,  morality,  and  order  at  home,  and  at  the  same  time  en- 
larged their  territory  abroad;  and  how  they  prospered  both  with 
war  and  with  wisdom;  and  also  the  sacred  orders,  how  zealous 
they  were,  both  in  teaching  and  learning,  and  in  all  the  services 
they  owed  to  God;  and  how  foreigners  came  to  this  land  in 
search  of  wisdom  and  instruction,  and  how  we  should  now  have 
to  get  them  from  abroad  if  we  would  have  them.  So  general 
was  its  decay  in  England  that  there  were  very  few  on  this  side 
of  the  Humber  who  could  understand  their  rituals  in  English, 
or  translate  a  letter  from  Latin  into  English;  and  I  believe 
there  were  not  many  beyond  the  Humber.  There  were  so  few 
that  I  cannot  remember  a  single  one  south  of  the  Thames  when 


jg4  ALFRED  THE  GREAT 

[  came  to  the  throne.  Thanks  be  to  God  Almighty  that  we 
have  any  teachers  among  us  now.  And  therefore  I  command 
thee  to  do  as  I  believe  thou  art  willing,  to  disengage  thyself 
from  worldly  matters  as  often  as  thou  canst,  that  thou  mayst 
apply  the  wisdom  which  God  has  given  thee  wherever  thou 
canst.  Consider  what  punishments  would  come  upon  us  on 
account  of  this  world  if  we  neither  loved  it  (wisdom)  ourselves 
nor  suffered  other  men  to  obtain  it:  we  should  love  the  name 
only  of  Christian,  and  very  few  of  the  virtues. 

When  I  considered  all  this  I  remembered  also  how  I  saw, 
before  it  had  been  all  ravaged  and  burnt,  how  the  churches 
throughout  the  whole  of  England  stood  filled  with  treasures  and 
books,  and  there  was  also  a  great  multitude  of  God's  servants; 
but  they  had  very  little  knowledge  of  the  books,  for  they  could 
not  understand  anything  of  them,  because  they  were  not  written 
in  their  own  language.  As  if  they  had  said,  **Our  forefathers, 
who  formerly  held  these  places,  loved  wisdom,  and  through  it 
they  obtained  wealth  and  bequeathed  it  to  us.  In  this  we  can 
still  see  their  tracks,  but  we  cannot  follow  them,  and  therefore 
we  have  lost  both  the  wealth  and  the  wisdom,  because  we  would 
not  incline  our  hearts  after  their  example." 

When  I  remembered  all  this,  I  wondered  extremely  that  the 
good  and  wise  men,  who  were  formerly  all  over  England,  and 
had  perfectly  learnt  all  the  books,  did  not  wish  to  translate 
them  into  their  own  language.  But  again,  I  soon  answered 
myself  and  said,  *^  They  did  not  think  that  men  would  ever  be 
so  careless,  and  that  learning  would  so  decay;  therefore  they 
abstained  from  translating,  and  they  trusted  that  the  wisdom  in 
this  land  might  increase  with  our  knowledge  of  languages.* 

Then  I  remember  how  the  law  was  first  known  in  Hebrew, 
and  again,  when  the  Greeks  had  learnt  it,  they  translated  the 
whole  of  it  into  their  own  language,  and  all  other  books  besides. 
And  again,  the  Romans,  when  they  had  learnt  it,  they  translated 
the  whole  of  it  through  learned  interpreters  into  their  own 
language.  And  also  all  other  Christian  nations  translated  a  part 
of  them  into  their  own  language.  Therefore  it  seems  better  to 
me,  if  ye  think  so,  for  us  also  to  translate  some  books  which  are 
most  needful  for  all  men  to  know,  into  the  language  which  we 
can  all  understand,  and  for  you  to  do  as  we  very  easily  can  if  we 
have  tranquillity  enough;  that  is,  that  all  the  youth  now  in 
England  of  free  men,  who  are  rich  enough  to  be  able  to  devote 


ALFRED  THE   GREAT  ^95 

themselves  to  it,  be  set  to  learn  as  long  as  they  are  not  fit  for 
any  other  occupation,  until  that  they  are  well  able  to  read  English 
writing:  and  let  those  be  afterward  taught  more  in  the  Latin 
language  who  are  to  continue  learning  and  be  promoted  to  a 
higher  rank.  When  I  remember  how  the  knowledge  of  Latin  had 
formerly  decayed  throughout  England,  and  yet  many  could  read 
English  writing,  I  began  among  other  various  and  manifold 
troubles  of  this  kingdom,  to  translate  into  English  the  book  which 
is  called  in  Latin  ^  Pastoral  is,  *  and  in  English  ^Shepherd's  Book, 
sometimes  word  by  word  and  sometimes  according  to  the  sense, 
as  I  had  learnt  it  from  Plegmund,  my  archbishop,  and  Asser,  my 
bishop,  and  Grimbold,  my  mass-priest,  and  John,  my  mass-priest. 
And  when  I  had  learnt  it  as  I  could  best  understand  it,  and  as  I 
could  most  clearly  interpret  it,  I  translated  it  into  English;  and 
I  will  send  a  copy  to  every  bishopric  in  my  kingdom;  and  on 
each  there  is  a  clasp  worth  fifty  mancus.  And  I  command,  in 
God's  name,  that  no  man  take  the  clasp  from  the  book  or  the 
book  from  the  minister:  it  is  uncertain  how  long  there  may  be 
such  learned  bishops  as  now,  thanks  be  to  God,  there  are  nearly 
everywhere;  therefore,  I  wish  them  always  to  remain  in  their 
place,  unless  the  bishop  wish  to  take  them  with  him,  or  they  be 
lent  out  anywhere,  or  any  one  make  a  copy  from  them. 

BLOSSOM   GATHERINGS   FROM   ST.   AUGUSTINE 

IN  every  tree  I  saw  something  there  which  I  needed  at  home, 
therefore  I  advise  every  one  who  is  able  and  has  many 
wains,  that  he  trade  to  the  same  wood  where  I  cut  the  stud 
shafts,  and  there  fetch  more  for  himself  and  load  his  wain  with 
fair  rods,  that  he  may  wind  many  a  neat  wall  and  set  many  a 
comely  house  and  build  many  a  fair  town  of  them;  and  thereby 
may  dwell  merrily  and  softly,  so  as  I  now  yet  have  not  done. 
But  He  who  taught  me,  to  whom  the  wood  was  agreeable.  He  may 
make  me  to  dwell  more  softly  in  this  temporary  cottage,  the  while 
that  I  am  in  this  world,  and  also  in  the  everlasting  home  which 
He  has  promised  us  through  St.  Augustine,  and  St.  Gregory,  and 
St.  Jerome,  and  through  other  holy  fathers;  as  I  believe  also 
that  for  the  merits  of  all  these  He  will  make  the  way  more  con- 
venient than  it  was  before,  and  especially  the  carrying  and  the 
building:  but  every  man  wishes  after  he  has  built  a  cottage  on 
his  lord's  lease   by  his   help,  that    he    may    sometimes    rest   him 


396 


ALFRED  THE   GREAT 


therein  and  hunt,  and  fowl,  and  fish,  and  use  it  every  way  under 
the  lease  both  on  water  and  on  land,  until  the  time  that  he  earn 
book-land  and  everlasting  heritage  through  his  lord's  mercy.  So 
do  enlighten  the  eyes  of  my  mind  so  that  I  may  search  out  the 
right  way  to  the  everlasting  home  and  the  everlasting  glory,  and 
the  everlasting  rest  which  is  promised  us  through  those  holy 
fathers.     May  it  be  so!     .     .     . 

It  is  no  wonder  though  men  swink  in  timber  working,  and  in 
the  wealthy  Giver  who  wields  both  these  temporary  cottages  and 
eternal  homes.  May  He  who  shaped  both  and  wields  both,  grant 
me  that  I  may  be  meet  for  each,  both  here  to  be  profitable  and 
thither  to  come. 


o 


WHERE  TO   FIND   TRUE  JOY 
From   <  Boethius  > 

h!  it  is  a  fault  of  weight, 

Let  him  think  it  out  who  will, 
And  a  danger  passing  great 
Which  can  thus  allure  to  ill 

Careworn  men  from  the  rightway, 
Swiftly  ever  led  astray. 


Will  ye  seek  within  the  wood 

Red  gold  on  the  green  trees  tall  ? 
None,  I  wot,  is  wise  that  could. 
For  it  grows  not  there  at  all: 
Neither  in  wine-gardens  green 
Seek  they  gems  of  glittering  sheen. 

Would  ye  on  some  hill-top  set, 

When  ye  list  to  catch  a  trout. 
Or  a  carp,  your  fishing-net  ? 

Men,  methinks,  have  long  found  out 
That  it  would  be  foolish  fare, 
For  they  know  they  are  not  there. 

In  the  salt  sea  can  ye  find. 

When  ye  list  to  start  an  hunt. 
With  your  hounds,  the  hart  or  hind  ? 
It  will  sooner  be  your  wont 
In  the  woods  to  look,  I  wot. 
Than  in  seas  where  they  are  not. 


ALFRED  THE  GREAT 

Is  it  wonderful  to  know 

That  for  crystals  red  or  white 
One  must  to  the  sea-beach  go, 
Or  for  other  colors  bright, 
Seeking  by  the  river's  side 
Or  the  shore  at  ebb  of  tide  ? 

Likewise,  men  are  well  aware 

Where  to  look  for  river-fish; 
And  all  other  worldly  ware 

Where  to  seek  them  when  they  wish; 
Wisely  careful  men  will  know 
Year  by  year  to  find  them  so. 

But  of  all  things  'tis  most  sad 

That  they  foolish  are  so  blind, 
So  besotted  and  so  mad. 

That  they  cannot  surely  find 
Where  the  ever-good  is  nigh 
And  true  pleasures  hidden  lie. 

Therefore,  never  is  their  strife 

After  those  true  joys  to  spur; 
In  this  lean  and  little  life 

They,  half-witted,  deeply  err 

Seeking  here  their  bliss  to  gain. 
That  is  God  Himself  in  vain, 

Ah!  I  know  not  in  my  thought 

How  enough  to  blame  their  sin. 
None  so  clearly  as  I  ought 

Can  I  show  their  fault  within; 

For,  more  bad  and  vain  are  they 
And  more  sad  than  I  can  say. 

All  their  hope  is  to  acquire 

Worship  goods  and  worldly  weal; 
When  they  have  their  mind's  desire, 
Then  such  witless  Joy  they  feel. 
That  in  folly  they  believe 
Those  True  Joys  they  then  receive. 

Works  of  Alfred  the  Great,  Jubilee  Edition  (Oxford  and  Cambridge,  1852) 


397 


3pg  ALFRED  THE  OREAT 

A  SORROWFUL  FYTTE 
From  <  Boethius  > 

Lo!  I  sung  cheerily 
In  my  bright  days, 
But  now  all  wearily 
Chaunt  I  my  lays; 
Sorrowing  tearfully, 
Saddest  of  men, 
Can  I  sing  cheerfully, 
As  I  could  then  ? 

Many  a  verity 

In  those  glad  times 
Of  my  prosperity 

Taught  I  in  rhymes; 
Now  from  forgetfulness 

Wanders  my  tongue, 
Wasting  in  fretfulness, 

Metres  unsung. 

Worldliness  brought  me  here 

Foolishly  blind. 
Riches  have  wrought  me  here 

Sadness  of  mind; 
When  I  rely  on  them, 

Lo!  they  depart, — 
Bitterly,  fie  on  them! 

Rend  they  my  heart. 
Why  did  your  songs  to  me. 

World-loving  men, 
Say  joy  belongs  to  me 

Ever  as  then  ? 
Why  did  ye  lyingly 

Think  such  &.  thing. 
Seeing  how  flyingly 

Wealth  may  take  wing  ? 

Works  of  Alfred  the  Great,  Jubilee  Edition  (Oxford  and  Cambridge,  1852). 


399 

CHARLES   GRANT   ALLEN 

(1848-1899) 

|he  Irish-Canadian  naturalist,  Charles  Grant  Blairfindie  Allen, 
who  turned  his  versatile  hand  with  equal  facility  to  scientific 
^  writing,  to  essays,  short  stories,  botanical  treatises,  biography, 
and  novels,  is  known  to  literature  as  Grant  Allen,  as  "Arbuthnot 
Wilson,"  and  as  ''Cecil  Power." 

His  work  may  be  divided  into  two  classes  :  fiction  and  popular 
essays.  The  first  shows  the  author's  familiarity  with  varied  scenes 
and  types,  and  exhibits  much  feeling  for  dramatic  situations.  His 
list  of  novels  is  long,  and  includes  among  others,  <  Strange  Stories,* 
<  Babylon,  >  <This  Mortal  Coil,>  <  The  Tents  of  Shem,>  <The  Great 
Taboo, >  < Recalled  to  Life,'  <The  Woman  Who  Did,>  and  <The  British 
Barbarians.*  In  many  of  these  books  he  has  woven  his  plots  around 
a  psychological  theme;  a  proof  that  science  interests  him  more  than 
invention.  His  essays  are  written  for  unscientific  readers,  and  care- 
fully avoid  all  technicalities  and  tedious  discussions.  Most  persons, 
he  says,  *  would  much  rather  learn  why  birds  have  feathers  than 
why  they  have  a  keeled  sternum,  and  they  think  the  origin  of  bright 
flowers  far  more  attractive  than  the  origin  of  monocotyledonous 
seeds  or  esogenous  stems.** 

Grant  Allen  was  born  in  Kingston,  Canada,  February  24th,  1848. 
After  graduation  at  Merton  College,  Oxford,  he  occupied  for  four 
years  the  chair  of  logic  and  philosophy  at  Queen's  College,  Spanish 
Town,  Jamaica,  which  he  resigned  to  settle  in  England,  where  he 
died  in  1899.  Early  in  his  career  he  became  an  enthusiastic  follower 
of  Darwin  and  Herbert  Spencer,  and  published  the  attractive  books 
entitled  <  Science  in  Arcady,  *  *  Vignettes  from  Nature,  *  *  The  Evolu- 
tionist at  Large,*  and  < Colin  Clout's  Calendar.*  In  his  preface  to 
*  Vignettes  from  Nature,*  he  says  that  the  '^  essays  are  written  from 
an  easy-going,  half-scientific  half-aesthetic  standpoint.**  In  this  spirit 
he  rambles  in  the  woods,  in  the  meadows,  at  the  seaside,  or  upon 
the  heather-carpeted  moor,  finding  in  such  expeditions  material  and 
suggestions  for  his  lightly  moving  essays,  which  expound  the  prob- 
lems of  Nature  according  to  the  theories  of  his  acknowledged  mas- 
ters. A  fallow  deer  grazing  in  a  forest,  a  wayside  berry,  a  guelder 
rose,  a  sportive  butterfly,  a  bed  of  nettles,  a  falling  leaf,  a  mountain 
tarn,  the  hole  of  a  .hedgehog,  a  darting  humming-bird,  a  ripening 
plum,  a  clover-blossom,  a  spray  of  sweet-briar,  a  handful  of  wild 
thyme,  or  a  blaze  of  scarlet  geranium  before  a  cottage  door,  furnish 
him  with  a  text  for  the  discussion  of  '*  those  biological  and  cosmicai 


400 


CHARLES  GRANT  ALLEN 


doctrines  which   have  revolutionized  the  thought    of  the  nineteenth 
century,  >>  as  he  says  in  substance. 

Somewhat  more  scientific  are  ^Psychological  Esthetics,'  *The 
Color  Sense,*  <The  Color  of  Flowers,*  and  < Flowers  and  their  Pedi- 
grees*; and  still  deeper  is  < Force  and  Energy*  (1888),  a  theory  of 
dynamics  in  which  he  expresses  original  views.  In  <  Psychological 
Esthetics*  (1877),  he  first  seeks  to  explain  <<such  simple  pleasures  in 
bright  color,  sweet  sound,  or  rude  pictorial  imitation  as  delight  the 
child  and  the  savage,  proceeding  from  these  elementary  principles 
to  the  more  and  more  complex  gratifications  of  natural  scenery, 
painting,  and  poetry.**  In  *  The  Color  Sense*  he  defines  all  that  we 
do  not  owe  to  the  color  sense,  for  example  the  rainbow,  the  sunset, 
the  sky,  the  green  or  purple  sea,  the  rocks,  the  foliage  of  trees  and 
shrubs,  hues  of  autumn,  effects  of  iridescent  light,  or  tints  of  min- 
erals and  precious  stones ;  and  all  that  we  do  owe,  namely,  **  the 
beautiful  flowers  of  the  meadow  and  the  garden-roses,  lilies,  cow- 
slips, and  daisies;  the  exquisite  pink  of  the  apple,  the  peach,  the 
mango,  and  the  cherry,  with  all  the  diverse  artistic  wealth  of 
oranges,  strawberries,  plums,  melons,  brambleberries,  and  pomegran- 
ates; the  yellow,  blue,  and  melting  green  of  tropical  butterflies;  the 
magnificent  plumage  of  the  toucan,  the  macaw,  the  cardinal-bird, 
the  lory,  and  the  honey-sucker;  the  red  breast  of  our  homely  robin; 
the  silver  or  ruddy  fur  of  the  ermine,  the  wolverene,  the  fox,  the 
squirrel,  and  the  chinchilla;  the  rosy  cheeks  and  pink  lips  of  the 
English  maiden;  the  whole  catalogue  of  dyea,  paints,  and  pigments: 
and  last  of  all,  the  colors  of  art  in   every  age  and  nation. 

Since  his  death  it  has  been  ascertained  that  Mr.  Allen  was  the 
author  of  **  The  Typewriter  Girl*'  and  ''  Rosalba,**  which  appeared  under 
the  pseudonym  of  Olive  Pratt  Rayner.  Some  critics  think  the  latter 
book  his  most  effective  work  of  fiction.  His  book,  "  Flashlights  on 
Natvu-e,"  was  published  in  1898,  and  "The  Eiu-opean  Tour"  in   1899. 


THE  COLORATION   OF  FLOWERS 

From  <The  Colors  of  Flowers* 

THE  different  hues  assumed  by  petals  are  all  thus,  as  it  were, 
laid  up  beforehand  in  the  tissues  of  the  plant,  ready  to  be 
brought  out  at  a  moment's  notice.  And  all  flowers,  as  we 
know,  easily  sport  a  little  in  color.  But  the  question  is,  Do  their 
changes  tend  to  follow  any  regular  and  definite  order  ?  Is  there 
any  reason  to  believe  that  the  modification  runs  from  any  one 
color  toward  any  other  ?  Apparently  there  is.  The  general  con- 
clusion to  be  set  forth  in  this  work  is  the  statement  of  such  a 


CHARLES  GRANT  ALLEN 


401 


tendency.  All  flowers,  it  would  seem,  were  in  their  earliest  form 
yellow;  then  some  of  them  became  white;  after  that,  a  few  of 
them  grew  to  be  red  or  purple;  and  finally,  a  comparatively 
small  number  acquired  various  shades  of  lilac,  mauve,  violet,  or 
blue.  So  that  if  this  principle  be  true,  such  a  flower  as  the  hare- 
bell will  represent  one  of  the  most  highly  developed  lines  of 
descent;  and  its  ancestors  will  have  passed  successively  through 
all  the  intermediate  stages.  Let  us  see  what  grounds  can  be 
given  for  such  a  belief. 

Some  hints  of  a  progressive  law  in  the  direction  of  a  color- 
change  from  yellow  to  blue  are  sometimes  afforded  to  us  even  by 
the  successive  stages  of  a  single  flower.  For  example,  one  of  our 
common  little  English  forget-me-nots,  Myosotis  versicolor^  is  pale 
yellow  when  it  first  opens;  but  as  it  grows  older,  it  becomes 
faintly  pinkish,  and  ends  by  being  blue,  like  the  others  of  its 
race.  Now,  this  sort  of  color-change  is  by  no  means  uncommon; 
and  in  almost  all  known  cases  it  is  always  in  the  same  direction, 
from  yellow  or  white,  through  pink,  orange,  or  red,  to  purple  or 
blue.  For  example,  one  of  the  wall-flowers,  Cheiranthus  chamce- 
leo,  has  at  first  a  whitish  flower,  then  a  citron-yellow,  and  finally 
emerges  into  red  or  violet.  The  petals  of  Stytidium  fructicosum 
are  pale  yellow  to  begin  with,  and  afterward  become  light  rose- 
colored.  An  evening  primrose,  CEnothera  tetraptera,  has  white 
flowers  in  its  first  stage,  and  red  ones  at  a  later  period  of  devel- 
opment. Cobea  scandens  goes  from  white  to  violet;  Hibiscus 
mutabilis  from  white  through  flesh-colored  to  red.  The  common 
Virginia  stock  of  our  gardens  {Malcolmid)  often  opens  of  a  pale 
yellowish  green,  then  becomes  faintly  pink;  afterward  deepens 
into  bright  red;  and  fades  away  at  the  last  into  mauve  or  blue. 
Fritz  Miiller's  Lantana  is  yellow  on  its  first  day,  orange  on  its 
second,  and  purple  on  the  third.  The  whole  family  of  Boraginacece 
begin  by  being  pink  and  end  with  being  blue.  The  garden  con- 
volvulus opens  a  blushing  white  and  passes  into  full  purple.  In 
all  these  and  many  other  cases  the  general  direction  of  the 
changes  is  the  same.  They  are  usually  set  down  as  due  to  vary- 
ing degrees  of  oxidation  in  the  pigmentary  matter.  If  this  be  so, 
there  is  a  good  reason  why  bees  should  be  specially  fond  of  blue, 
and  why  blue  flowers  should  be  specially  adapted  for  fertilization 
by  their  aid.  For  Mr.  A.  R.  Wallace  has  shown  that  color  is 
most  apt  to  appear  or  to  vary  in  those  parts  of  plants  or  animals 
which  have  undergone  the  highest  amount  of  modification.  The 
I — 26 


.Q2  CHARLES  GRANT  ALLEN 

markings  of  the  peacock  and  the  argns  pheasant  come  out  upon 
their  immensely  developed  secondary  tail-feathers  or  wing-plumes; 
the  metallic  hues  of  sun-birds,  or  humming-birds,  show  them- 
selves upon  their  highly  specialized  crests,  gorgets,  or  lappets.  It 
is  the  same  with  the  hackles  of  fowls,  the  head  ornaments  of 
fruit-pigeons,  and  the  bills  of  toucans.  The  most  exquisite  colors 
in  the  insect  world  are  those  which  are  developed  on  the  greatly 
expanded  and  delicately  feathered  wings  of  butterflies;  and  the 
eye-spots  which  adorn  a  few  species  are  usually  found  on  their 
very  highly  modified  swallow-tail  appendages.  So  too  with  flow- 
ers: those  which  have  undergone  most  modification  have  their 
colors  most  profoundly  altered.  In  this  way,  we  may  put  it  down 
as  a  general  rule  (to  be  tested  hereafter)  that  the  least  developed 
flowers  are  usually  yellow  or  white;  those  which  have  undergone 
a  little  more  modification  are  usually  pink  or  red;  and  those  which 
have  been  most  highly  specialized  of  any  are  usually  purple,  lilac, 
or  blue.  Absolute  deep  ultramarine  probably  marks  the  highest 
level  of  all. 

On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Wallace's  principle  also  explains  why 
the  bees  and  butterflies  should  prefer  these  specialized  colors  to 
all  others,  and  should  therefore  select  those  flowers  which  display 
them  by  preference  over  any  less  developed  types;  for  bees  and 
butterflies  are  the  most  highly  adapted  of  all  insects  to  honey- 
seeking  and  flower-feeding.  They  have  themselves  on  their  side 
undergone  the  largest  amount  of  specialization  for  that  particular 
function.  And  if  the  more  specialized  and  modified  flowers, 
which  gradually  fitted  their  forms  and  the  position  of  their  honey- 
glands  to  the  forms  of  the  bees  or  butterflies,  showed  a  natural 
tendency  to  pass  from  yellow  through  pink  and  red  to  purple 
and  blue,  it  would  follow  that  the  insects  which  were  being 
evolved  side  by  side  with  them,  and  which  were  aiding  at  the 
same  time  in  their  evolution,  would  grow  to  recognize  these 
developed  colors  as  the  visible  symbols  of  those  flowers  from 
which  they  could  obtain  the  largest  amount  of  honey  with  the 
least  possible  trouble.  Thus  it  would  finally  result  that  the 
ordinary  unspecialized  flowers,  which  depended  upon  small  insect 
riff-raff,  would  be  mostly  left  yellow  or  white;  those  which 
appealed  to  rather  higher  insects  would  become  pink  or  red;  and 
those  which  laid  themselves  out  for  bees  or  butterflies,  the  aristo- 
crats of  the  arthropodous  world,  would  grow  for  the  most  pan 
to  be  purple  or  blue. 


CHARLES  GRANT  ALLEN  403 

Now,  this  is  very  much  what  we  actually  find  to  be  the 
case  in  nature.  The  simplest  and  earliest  flowers  are  those  with 
regular,  symmetrical  open  cups,  like  the  Ranunculus  genus,  the 
Potentillas,  and  the  Alsine  or  chickweeds,  which  can  be  visited 
by  any  insects  whatsoever;  and  these  are  in  large  part  yellow  or 
white.  A  little  higher  are  flowers  like  the  Campions  or  Silenece, 
and  the  stocks  {Matthiola),  with  more  or  less  closed  cups,  whose 
honey  can  only  be  reached  by  more  specialized  insects;  and  these 
are  oftener  pink  or  reddish.  More  profoundly  modified  are  those 
irregular  one-sided  flowers,  like  the  violets,  peas,  and  orchids, 
which  have  assumed  special  shapes  to  accommodate  bees  and 
other  specific  honey-seekers;  and  these  are  often  purple  and  not 
unfrequently  blue.  Highly  specialized  in  another  way  are  the 
flowers  like  harebells  {Campafiulacece),  scabious  {Dipsacece)^  and 
heaths  {Ericacece),  whose  petals  have  all  coalesced  into  a  tubular 
corolla;  and  these  might  almost  be  said  to  be  usually  purple  or 
blue.  And  finally,  highest  of  all  are  the  flowers  like  labiates 
(rosemary.  Salvia,  etc.)  and  speedwells  {Veronica),  whose  tubular 
corolla  has  been  turned  to  one  side,  thus  combining  the  united 
petals  with  the  irregular  shape;  and  these  are  almost  invariably 
purple  or  blue. 


AMONG  THE  HEATHER 
From  <The  Evolutionist  at  Large* 

1  SUPPOSE  even  that  apocryphal  person,  the  general  reader,  would 
be  insulted  at  being  told  at  this  hour  of  the  day  that  all 
bright-colored  flowers  are  fertilized  by  the  visits  of  insects, 
whose  attentions  they  are  specially  designed  to  solicit  Every, 
body  has  heard  over  and  over  again  that  roses,  orchids,  and 
columbines  have  acquired  their  honey  to  allure  the  friendly  bee, 
their  gaudy  petals  to  advertise  the  honey,  and  their  divers  shapes 
to  insure  the  proper  fertilization  by  the  correct  type  of  insect. 
But  everybody  does  not  know  how  specifically  certain  blossoms 
have  laid  themselves  out  for  a  particular  species  of  fly,  beetle, 
or  tiny  moth.  Here  on  the  higher  downs,  for  instance,  most  flow- 
ers are  exceptionally  large  and  brilliant;  while  all  Alpine  climb- 
ers must  have  noticed  that  the  most  gorgeous  masses  of  bloom 
in  Switzerland  occur  just  below  the  snow-line.  The  reason  is, 
that  such  blossoms  must  be  fertilized  by  butterflies  alone.     Bees, 


404  CHARLES  GRANT  ALLEN 

their  great  rivals  in  honey-sucking,  frequent  only  the  lower  mead- 
ows and  slopes,  where  flowers  are  many  and  small:  they  seldom 
venture  far  from  the  hive  or  the  nest  among  the  high  peaks  and 
chilly  nooks  where  we  find  those  great  patches  of  blue  gentian 
or  purple  anemone,  which  hang  like  monstrous  breadths  of  tapes- 
try upon  the  mountain  sides.  This  heather  here,  now  fully  open- 
ing in  the  warmer  sun  of  the  southern  counties  —  it  is  still  but 
in  the  bud  among  the  Scotch  hills,  I  doubt  not  —  specially  lays 
itself  out  for  the  humble-bee,  and  its  masses  form  almost  his 
highest  pasture -grounds;  but  the  butterflies  —  insect  vagrants  that 
they  are  —  have  no  fixed  home,  and  they  therefore  stray  far 
above  the  level  at  which  bee-blossoms  altogether  cease  to  grow. 
Now,  the  butterfly  differs  greatly  from  the  bee  in  his  mode  of 
honey-hunting:  he  does  not  bustle  about  in  a  business-like  man- 
ner from  one  buttercup  or  dead-nettle  to  its  nearest  fellow;  but 
he  flits  joyously,  like  a  sauntering  straggler  that  he  is,  from  a 
great  patch  of  color  here  to  another  great  patch  at  a  distance, 
whose  gleam  happens  to  strike  his  roving  eye  by  its  size  and 
brilliancy.  Hence,  as  that  indefatigable  observer,.  Dr.  Hermann 
Miiller,  has  noticed,  all  Alpine  or  hill-top  flowers  have  very  large 
and  conspicuous  blossoms,  generally  grouped  together  in  big 
clusters  so  as  to  catch  a  passing  glance  of  the  butterfly's  eye. 
As  soon  as  the  insect  spies  such  a  cluster,  the  color  seems  to  act 
as  a  stimulant  to  his  broad  wings,  just  as  the  candle-light  does  to 
those  of  his  cousin  the  moth.  Off  he  sails  at  once,  as  if  by  auto- 
matic action,  towards  the  distant  patch,  and  there  both  robs  the 
plant  of  its  honey,  and  at  the  same  time  carries  to  it  on  his  legs 
and  head  fertilizing  pollen  from  the  last  of  its  congeners  which 
he  favored  with  a  call.  For  of  course  both  bees  and  butterflies 
stick  on  the  whole  to  a  single  species  at  a  time;  or  else  the 
flowers  would  only  get  uselessly  hybridized,  instead  of  being 
impregnated  with  pollen  from  other  plants  of  their  own  kind. 
For  this  purpose  it  is  that  most  plants  lay  themselves  out  to 
secure  the  attention  of  only  two  or  three  varieties  among  their 
insect  allies,  while  they  make  their  nectaries  either  too  deep  or 
too  shallow  for  the  convenience  of  all  other  kinds. 

Insects,  however,  differ  much  from  one  another  in  their  ccs- 
thetic  tastes,  and  flowers  are  adapted  accordingly  to  the  varying 
fancies  of  the  different  kinds.  Here,  for  example,  is  a  spray  of 
common  white  galium,  which  attracts  and  is  fertilized  by  smal) 
aies,    who  generally  frequent  white   blossoms.      But  here  again 


CHARLES  GRANT  ALLEN  ^oe 

not  far  off,  I  find  a  luxuriant  mass  of  the  yellow  species,  known 
by  the  quaint  name  of  "  lady's-bedstraw,  ^* —  a  legacy  from  the  old 
legend  which  represents  it  as  having  formed  Our  Lady's  bed  in 
the  manger  at  Bethlehem.  Now  why  has  this  kind  of  galium 
yellow  flowers,  while  its  near  kinsman  yonder  has  them  snowy 
white  ?  The  reason  is  that  lady's-bedstraw  is  fertilized  by  small 
beetles;  and  beetles  are  known  to  be  one  among  the  most  color- 
loving  races  of  insects.  You  may  often  find  one  of  their  number, 
the  lovely  bronze  and  golden-mailed  rose-chafer,  buried  deeply  in 
the  very  centre  of  a  red  garden  rose,  and  reeling  about  when 
touched  as  if  drunk  with  pollen  and  honey.  Almost  all  the 
flowers  which  beetles  frequent  are  consequently  brightly  decked 
in  scarlet  or  yellow.  On  the  other  hand,  the  whole  family  of  the 
umbellates,  those  tall  plants  with  level  bunches  of  tiny  blossoms, 
like  the  fool's-parsley,  have  all  but  universally  white  petals;  and 
MUller,  the  most  statistical  of  naturalists,  took  the  trouble  to 
count  the  number  of  insects  which  paid  them  a  visit.  He  found 
that  only  fourteen  per  cent,  were  bees,  while  the  remainder  con- 
sisted mainly  of  miscellaneous  small  flies  and  other  arthropodous 
riff-raff,  whereas,  in  the  brilliant  class  of  composites,  including 
the  asters,  sunflowers,  daisies,  dandelions,  and  thistles,  nearly  sev- 
enty-five per  cent,  of  the  visitors  were  steady,  industrious  bees. 
Certain  dingy  blossoms  which  lay  themselves  out  to  attract  wasps 
are  obviously  adapted,  as  Miiller  quaintly  remarks,  **  to  a  less  aes- 
thetically cultivated  circle  of  visitors.*  But  the  most  brilliant 
among  all  insect-fertilized  flowers  are  those  which  specially  affect 
the  society  of  butterflies;  and  they  are  only  surpassed  in  this 
respect  throughout  all  nature  by  the  still  larger  and  more  mag- 
nificent tropical  species  which  owe  their  fertilization  to  humming- 
birds and  brush-tongued  lories. 

Is  it  not  a  curious,  yet  a  comprehensible  circumstance,  that 
the  tastes  which  thus  show  themselves  in  the  development,  by 
natural  selection,  of  lovely  flowers,  should  also  show  themselves 
in  the  marked  preference  for  beautiful  mates  ?  Poised  on  yonder 
sprig  of  harebell  stands  a  little  purple-winged  butterfly,  one  of 
the  most  exquisite  among  our  British  kinds.  That  little  butterfly 
owes  its  own  rich  and  delicately  shaded  tints  to  the  long  selective 
action  of  a  million  generations  among  its  ancestors.  So  we  find 
throughout  that  the  most  beautifully  colored  birds  and  insects  are 
always  those  which  have  had  most  to  do  with  the  production  of 
bright-colored  fruits  and  flowers.      The  butterflies  and  rose-beetles 


4o6 


CHARLES  GRANT  ALLEN 


are  the  most  gorgeous  among  insects;  the  humming-birds  and  par- 
rots are  the  most  gorgeous  among  birds.  Nay,  more,  exactly  like 
effects  have  been  produced  in  two  hemispheres  on  different  tribes 
by  the  same  causes.  The  plain  brown  swifts  of  the  North  have 
developed  among  tropical  West  Indian  and  South  American 
orchids  the  metallic  gorgets  and  crimson  crests  of  the  humming- 
bird; while  a  totally  unlike  group  of  Asiatic  birds  have  developed 
among  the  rich  flora  of  India  and  the  Malay  Archipelago  the 
exactly  similar  plumage  of  the  exquisite  sun-birds.  Just  as  bees 
depend  upon  flowers,  and  flowers  upon  bees,  so  the  color-sense  of 
animals  has  created  the  bright  petals  of  blossoms;  and  the  bright 
petals  have  reacted  upon  the  tastes  of  the  animals  themselves, 
and  through  their  tastes  upon  their  own  appearance. 


THE  HERON'S  HAUNT 

From  < Vignettes  from  Nature* 

MOST  of  the  fields  on  the  country-side  are  now  laid  up  for 
hay,  or  down  in  the  tall  haulming  corn;  and  so  I  am 
driven  from  my  accustomed  botanizing  grounds  on  the 
open,  and  compelled  to  take  refuge  in  the  wild  bosky  moor- 
land back  of  Hole  Common.  Here,  on  the  edge  of  the  copse, 
the  river  widens  to  a  considerable  pool,  and  coming  upon  it 
softly  through  the  wood  from  behind  —  the  boggy,  moss-covered 
ground  masking  and  muffling  my  foot-fall  —  I  have  surprised  a 
great,  graceful  ash-and-white  heron,  standing  all  unconscious  on 
the  shallow  bottom,  in  the  very  act  of  angling  for  minnows. 
The  heron  is  a  somewhat  rjare  bird  among  the  more  cultivated 
parts  of  England;  but  just  hereabouts  we  get  a  sight  of  one 
not  infrequently,  for  they  still  breed  in  a  few  tall  ash-trees  at 
Chilcombe  Park,  where  the  lords  of  the  manor  in  mediaeval 
times  long  preserved  a  regular  heronry  to  provide  sport  for 
their  hawking.  There  is  no  English  bird,  not  even  the  swan, 
so  perfectly  and  absolutely  graceful  as  the  heron.  I  am  leaning 
now  breathless  and  noiseless  against  the  gate,  taking  a  good 
look  at  him,  as  he  stands  half-knee  deep  on  the  oozy  bottom, 
with  his  long  neck  arched  over  the  water,  and  his  keen  purple 
eye  fixed  eagerly  upon  the  fish  below.  Though  I  am  still 
twenty  yards  from  where  he  poises  lightly  on  his  stilted  legs,  I 
can   see   distinctly  his    long    pendent   snow-white   breast-feathers. 


CHARLES  GRANT  ALLEN 


407 


his  crest  of  waving  black  plumes,  falling  loosely  backward  over 
the  ash-gray  neck,  and  even  the  bright  red  skin  of  his  bare 
legs  just  below  the  feathered  thighs.  I  dare  hardly  move 
nearer  to  get  a  closer  view  of  his  beautiful  plumage;  and 
still  I  will  try.  I  push  very  quietly  through  the  gate,  but  not 
quite  quietly  enough  for  the  heron.  One  moment  he  raises  his 
curved  neck  and  poises  his  head  a  little  on  one  side  to  listen 
for  the  direction  of  the  rustling;  then  he  catches  a  glimpse  of 
me  as  I  try  to  draw  back  silently  behind  a  clump  of  flags  and 
nettles;  and  in  a  moment  his  long  legs  give  him  a  good  spring 
from  the  bottom,  his  big  wings  spread  with  a  sudden  flap  sky- 
wards, and  almost  before  I  can  note  what  is  happening  he  is 
off  and  away  to  leeward,  making  a  bee-line  for  the  high  trees 
that  fringe  the  artificial  water  in  Chilcombe  Hollow. 

All  these  wading  birds — the  herons,  the  cranes,  the  bitterns, 
the  snipes,  and  the  plovers — are  almost  necessarily,  by  the  very 
nature  of  their  typical  conformation,  beautiful  and  graceful  in 
form.  Their  tall,  slender  legs,  which  they  require  for  wading, 
their  comparatively  light  and  well-poised  bodies,  their  long, 
curved,  quickly-darting  necks  and  sharp  beaks,  which  they  need 
in  order  to  secure  their  rapid-swimming  prey, —  all  these  things 
make  the  waders,  almost  in  spite  of  themselves,  handsome  and 
shapely  birds.  Their  feet,  it  is  true,  are  generally  rather  large 
and  sprawling,  with  long,  wide-spread  toes,  so  as  to  distribute 
their  weight  on  the  snow-shoe  principle,  and  prevent  them  from 
sinking  in  the  deep  soft  mud  on  which  they  tread;  but  then  we 
seldom  see  the  feet,  because  the  birds,  when  we  catch  a  close 
view  of  them  at  all,  are  almost  always  either  on  stilts  in  the 
water,  or  flying  with  their  legs  tucked  behind  them,  after  their 
pretty  rudder-like  fashion.  I  have  often  wondered  whether  it 
is  this  general  beauty  of  form  in  the  waders  which  has  turned 
their  aesthetic  tastes,  apparently,  into  such  a  sculpturesque  line. 
Certainly,  it  is  very  noteworthy  that  whenever  among  this 
particular  order  of  birds  we  get  clear  evidence  of  ornamental 
devices,  such  as  Mr.  Darwin  sets  down  to  long-exerted  selective 
preferences  in  the  choice  of  mates,  the  ornaments  are  almost 
always  those  of  form  rather  than  those  of  color. 

The  waders,  I  sometimes  fancy,  only  care  for  beauty  of 
shape,  not  for  beauty  of  tint.  As  I  stood  looking  at  the  heron 
here  just  now,  the  same  old  idea  seemed  to  force  itself  more 
clearly  than  ever  upon  my  mind.     The  decorative  adjuncts — the 


4o8 


CHARLES  GRANT  ALLEN 


curving  tufted  crest  on  the  head,  the  pendent  silvery  gorget  on 
the  neck,  the  long  ornamental  quills  of  the  pinions  —  all  look 
exactly  as  if  they  were  deliberately  intended  to  emphasize  and 
heighten  the  natural  gracefulness  of  the  heron's  form.  May  it 
not  be,  I  ask  myself,  that  these  birds,  seeing  one  another's 
statuesque  shape  from  generation  to  generation,  have  that  shape 
hereditarily  implanted  upon  the  nervous  system  of  the  species, 
in  connection  with  all  their  ideas  of  mating  and  of  love,  just 
as  the  human  form  is  hereditarily  associated  with  all  our  deep- 
est emotions,  so  that  Miranda  falling  in  love  at  first  sight  with 
Ferdinand  is  not  a  mere  poetical  fiction,  but  the  true  illustra- 
tion of  a  psychological  fact  ?  And  as  on  each  of  our  minds  and 
brains  the  picture  of  the  beautiful  human  figure  is,  as  it  were, 
antecedently  engraved,  may  not  the  ancestral  type  be  similarly 
engraved  on  the  minds  and  brains  of  the  wading  birds  ?  If  so, 
would  it  not  be  natural  to  conclude  that  these  birds,  having  thus 
a  very  graceful  form  as  their  generic  standard  of  taste,  a  grace- 
ful form  with  little  richness  of  coloring,  would  naturally  choose 
as  the  loveliest  among  their  mates,  not  those  which  showed  any 
tendency  to  more  bright-hued  plumage  (which  indeed  might  be 
fatal  to  their  safety,  by  betraying  them  to  their  enemies,  the  fal- 
cons and  eagles),  but  those  which  most  fully  embodied  and  carried 
furthest  the  ideal  specific  gracefulness  of  the  wading  type  ?  .  .  , 
Forestine  flower-feeders  and  fruit-eaters,  especially  in  the 
tropics,  are  almost  always  brightly  colored.  Their  chromatic 
taste  seems  to  get  quickened  in  their  daily  search  for  food 
among  the  beautiful  blossoms  and  brilliant  fruits  of  southern 
woodlands.  Thus  the  humming-birds,  the  sun-birds,  and  the 
brush-tongued  lories,  three  very  dissimilar  groups  of  birds  as 
far  as  descent  is  concerned,  all  alike  feed  upon  the  honey  and 
the  insects  which  they  extract  from  the  large  tubular  bells  of 
tropical  flowers;  and  all  alike  are  noticeable  for  their  intense 
metallic  lustre  or  pure  tones  of  color.  Again,  the  parrots,  the 
toucans,  the  birds  of  paradise,  and  many  other  of  the  more  beau- 
tiful exotic  species,  are  fruit-eaters,  and  reflect  their  inherited 
taste  in  their  own  gaudy  plumage.  But  the  waders  have  no  such 
special  reasons  for  acquiring  a  love  for  bright  hues.  Hence 
their  aesthetic  feeling  seems  rather  to  have  taken  a  turn  toward 
the  further  development  of  their  own  graceful  forms.  Even  the 
plainest  wading  birds  have  a  certain  natural  elegance  of  shape 
which  supplies  a  primitive  basis  for  aesthetic  selection  to  work  on. 


409 

JAMES   LANE  ALLEN 

(1850-) 

Jhe  literary  work  of  James  Lane  Allen  was  begun  with  maturer 
powers  and  wider  culture  than  most  writers  exhibit  in  their 
first  publications.  His  mastery  of  English  was  acquired  with 
difficulty,  and  his  knowledge  of  Latin  he  obtained  through  years  of 
instruction  as  well  as  of  study.  The  wholesome  open-air  atmosphere 
which  pervades  his  stories,  their  pastoral  character  and  love  of  nat- 
ure, come  from  the  tastes  bequeathed  to  him  by  three  generations  of 
paternal  ancestors,  easy-going  gentlemen  farmers  of  the  blue-grass 
region  of  Kentucky.  On  a  farm  near  Lexington,  in  this  beautiful 
country  of  stately  homes,  fine  herds,  and  great  flocks,  the  author  was 
born,  and  there  he  spent  his  childhood  and  youth. 

About  1885  he  came  to  New  York  to  devote  himself  to  literature; 
for  though  he  had  contributed  poems,  essays,  and  criticisms  to  lead- 
ing periodicals,  his  first  important  work  was  a  series  of  articles 
descriptive  of  the  <<  Blue-Grass  Region,"  published  in  Harper's  Maga- 
zine. The  field  was  new,  the  work  was  fresh,  and  the  author's  ability 
was  at  once  recognized.  Inevitably  he  chose  Kentucky  for  the  scene 
of  his  stories,  knowing  and  loving,  as  he  did,  her  characteristics  and 
her  history.  While  preparing  his  articles  on  *The  Blue-Grass  Region,* 
he  had  studied  the  Trappist  Monastery  and  the  Convent  of  Loretto, 
as  well  as  the  records  of  the  Catholic  Church  in  Kentucky;  and  his 
first  stories,  <  The  White  Cowl  *  and  *  Sister  Dolorosa,  >  which  appeared 
in  the  Century  Magazine,  were  the  first  fruits  of  this  labor.  A  con- 
troversy arose  as  to  the  fairness  of  these  portraitures;  but  however 
opinions  may  differ  as  to  his  characterization,  there  can  be  no  ques- 
tion of  the  truthfulness  of  the  exposition  of  the  mediaeval  spirit  of 
those  retreats. 

This  tendency  "to  use  a  historic  background  marks  most  of  Mr. 
Allen's  stories.  In  <The  Choir  Invisible,*  a  tale  of  the  last  century, 
pioneer  Kentucky  once  more  exists.  The  old  clergyman  of  ^  Flute 
and  Violin*  lived  and  died  in  Lexington,  and  had  been  long  for- 
gotten when  his  story  *<  touched  the  vanishing  halo  of  a  hard  and 
saintly  life.**  The  old  negro  preacher,  with  texts  embroidered  on  his 
coat-tails,  was  another  figure  of  reality,  unnoticed  until  he  became 
one  of  the  ^Two  Gentlemen  of  Kentucky.*  In  Lexington  lived  and 
died  **King  Solomon,**  who  had  almost  faded  from  memory  when 
his  historian  found  the  record  of  the  poor  vagabond's  heroism  during 
the  plague,  and  made  it  memorable  in  a  story  that  touches  the  heart 
and   fills   the    eyes.      *A  Kentucky   Cardinal,*   with    *  Aftermath,*   its 


4IO  JAMES  LANE   ALLEN 

second  part,  is  full  of  history  and  of  historic  personages.  <  Summer 
in  Arcady:  A  Tale  of  Nature,*  the  latest  of  Mr.  Allen's  stories,  is  no 
less  based  on  local  history  and  no  less  full  of  local  color  than  his 
other  tales,  notwithstanding  its  general  unlikeness. 

This  book  sounds  a  deeper  note  than  the  earlier  tales,  although 
the  truth  which  Mr.  Allen  sees  is  not  mere  fidelity  to  local  types,  but 
the  essential  truth  of  human  nature.  His  realism  has  always  a  poetic 
aspect.  Quiet,  reserved,  out  of  the  common,  his  books  deal  with 
moods  rather  than  with  actions;  their  problems  are  spiritual  rather 
than  physical;  their  thought  tends  toward  the  higher  and  more  diffi- 
cult way  of  life. 

A  COURTSHIP 

From  <  Summer  in  Arcady  > 

THE  sunlight  grew  pale  the  following  morning;  a  shadow  crept 
rapidly  over  the  blue;  bolts  darted  about  the  skies  like 
maddened  redbirds;  the  thunder,  ploughing  its  way  down 
the  dome  as  along  zigzag  cracks  in#the  stony  street,  filled  the 
caverns  of  the  horizon  with  reverberations  that  shook  the  earth; 
and  the  rain  was  whirled  across  the  landscape  in  long,  white, 
wavering  sheets.  Then  all  day  quiet  and  silence  throughout 
Nature  except  for  the  drops,  tapping  high  and  low  the  twinkling 
leaves;  except  for  the  new  melody  of  woodland  and  meadow 
brooks,  late  silvery  and  with  a  voice  only  for  their  pebbles  and 
moss  and  mint,  but  now  yellow  and  brawling  and  leaping  back 
into  the  grassy  channels  that  were  their  old-time  beds;  except 
for  the  indoor  music  of  dripping  eaves  and  rushing  gutters  and 
overflowing  rain-barrels.  And  when  at  last  in  the  gold  of  the 
cool  west  the  sun  broke  from  the  edge  of  the  gray,  over  what  a 
green,  soaked,  fragrant  world  he  reared  the  arch  of  Nature's 
peace ! 

Not  a  little  blade  of  corn  in  the  fields  but  holds  in  an  eme- 
rald vase  its  treasures  of  white  gems.  The  hemp-stalks  bend  so 
low  under  the  weight  of  their  plumes,  that  were  a  vesper  spar- 
row to  alight  on  one  for  his  evening  hymn,  it  would  go  with 
him  to  the  ground.  The  leaning  barley  and  rye  and  wheat  flash 
in  the  last  rays  their  jeweled  beards.  Under  the  old  apple- 
trees,  golden-brown  mushrooms  are  already  pushing  upward 
through  the  leaf -loam,  rank  with  many  an  autumn's  dropping. 
About  the  yards  the  peonies  fall  with  faces  earthward.  In 
the  stable-lots  the  larded  porkers,  with  bristles  as  clean  as  frost, 


JAMES  LANE  ALLEN  41 1 

and  flesh  of  pinky  whiteness,  are  hunting  with  nervous  nostrils 
for  the  lush  purslain.  The  fowls  are  driving  their  bills  up  and 
down  their  wet  breasts.  And  the  farmers  who  have  been  shell- 
ing com  for  the  mill  come  out  of  their  bams,  with  their  coats 
over  their  shoulders,  on  the  way  to  supper,  look  about  for  the 
plough-horses,  and  glance  at  the  western  sky,  from  which  the 
last  drops  are  falling. 

But  soon  only  a  more  passionate  heat  shoots  from  the  sun 
into  the  planet.  The  plumes  of  the  hemp  are  so  dry  again,  that 
by  the  pollen  shaken  from  their  tops  you  can  trace  the  young 
rabbits  making  their  way  out  to  the  dusty  paths.  The  shadows 
of  white  clouds  sail  over  purple  stretches  of  blue-grass,  hiding 
the  sun  from  the  steady  eye  of  the  turkey,  whose  brood  is 
spread  out  before  her  like  a  fan  on  the  earth.  At  early  morn- 
ing the  neighing  of  the  stallions  is  heard  around  the  horizon;  at 
noon  the  bull  makes  the  deep,  hot  pastures  echo  with  his  majes- 
tic summons;  out  in  the  blazing  meadows  the  butterflies  strike 
the  afternoon  air  with  more  impatient  wings;  under  the  moon 
all  night  the  play  of  ducks  and  drakes  goes  on  along  the  mar- 
gins of  the  ponds.  Young  people  are  running  away  and  marry- 
ing; middle-aged  farmers  surprise  their  wives  by  looking  in  on 
them  at  their  butter-making  in  the  sweet  dairies;  and  Nature 
is  lashing  everything  —  grass,  fruit,  insects, -cattle,  human  creat- 
ures—  more  fiercely  onward  to  the  fulfillment  of  her  ends.  She 
is  the  great  heartless  haymaker,  wasting  not  a  ray  of  sunshine 
on  a  clod,  but  caring  naught  for  the  light  that  beats  upon  a 
throne,  and  holding  man  and  woman,  with  their  longing  for  im- 
mortality, and  their  capacities  for  joy  and  pain,  as  of  no  more 
account  than  a  couple  of  fertilizing  nasturtiums. 

The  storm  kept  Daphne  at  home.  On  the  next  day  the  earth 
was  yellow  with  sunlight,  but  there  were  puddles  along  the  path^ 
and  a  branch  rushing  swollen  across  the  green  valley  in  the 
fields.  On  the  third,  her  mother  took  the  children  to  town  to  be 
fitted  with  hats  and  shoes,  and  Daphne  also,  to  be  freshened  up 
with  various  moderate  adornments,  in  view  of  a  protracted  meet- 
ing soon  to  begin.  On  the  fourth,  some  ladies  dropped  in  to 
spend  the  day,  bearing  in  mind  the  episode  at  the  dinner,  and 
having  grown  curious  to  watch  events  accordingly.  On  the  fifth, 
her  father  carried  out  the  idea  of  cutting  down  some  cedar-trees 
in  the  front  yard  for  fence  posts;  and  w'henever  he  was  working 
about  the  house,  he  kept  her  near  to  wait  on  him  in  unnecessary 


41  a  JAMES  LANE   ALLEN 

ways.  On  the  sixth,  he  rode  away  with  two  hands  and  an  empty 
wagon-bed  for  some  work  on  the  farm;  her  mother  drove  off  to 
another  dinner  —  dinners  never  cease  in  Kentucky,  and  the  wife 
of  an  elder  is  not  free  to  decline  invitations;  and  at  last  she  was 
left  alone  in  the  front  porch,  her  face  turned  with  burning  eager- 
ness toward  the  fields.     In  a  little  while  she  had  slipped  away. 

All  these  days  Hilary  had  been  eager  to  see  her.  He  was 
carrying  a  good  many  girls  in  his  mind  that  summer;  none  in 
his  heart;  but  his  plans  concerning  these  latter  were  for  the  time 
forgotten.  He  hung  about  that  part  of  his  farm  from  which  he 
could  have  descried  her  in  the  distance.  Each  forenoon  and 
afternoon,  at  the  usual  hour  of  her  going  to  her  uncle's,  he  rode 
over  and  watched  for  her.  Other  people  passed  to  and  fro, — 
children  and  servants, —  but  not  Daphne;  and  repeated  disappoint- 
ments fanned  his  desire  to  see  her. 

When  she  came  into  sight  at  last,  he  was  soon  walking  beside 
her,  leading  his  horse  by  the  reins. 

**I  have  been  waiting  to  see  you.  Daphne,'^  he  said,  with  a 
smile,  but  general  air  of  seriousness.  "  I  have  been  waiting  a 
long  time  for  a  chance  to  talk  to  you.** 

*And  I  have  wanted  to  see  you,'*  said  Daphne,  her  face 
turned  away  and  her  voice  hardly  to  be  heard.  "I  have  been 
waiting  for  a  chance  "to  talk  to  you.** 

The  change  in  her  was  so  great,  so  unexpected,  it  contained 
an  appeal  to  him  so  touching,  that  he  glanced  quickly  at  her. 
Then  he  stopped  short  and  looked  searchingly  around  the 
meadow. 

The  thorn-tree  is  often  the  only  one  that  can  survive  on  these 
pasture  lands.  Its  spikes,  even  when  it  is  no  higher  than  the 
grass,  keep  off  the  mouths  of  grazing  stock.  As  it  grows  higher, 
birds  see  it  standing  solitary  in  the  distance  and  fly  to  it,  as  a 
resting-place  in  passing.  Some  autumn  day  a  seed  of  the  wild 
grape  is  thus  dropped  near  its  root;  and  in  time  the  thorn-tree 
and  the  grape-vine  come  to  thrive  together. 

As  Hilary  now  looked  for  some  shade  to  which  they  could 
retreat  from  the  blinding,  burning  sunlight,  he  saw  one  of  these 
standing  off  at  a  distance  of  a  few  hundred  yards.  He  slipped 
the  bridle-reins  through  the  head-stall,  and  giving  his  mare  a 
soft  slap  on  the  shoulder,  turned  her  loose  to  graze. 

^*  Come  over  here  and  sit  down  out  of  the  sun,  **  he  said,  start- 
ing off  in  his  authoritative  way.     ^^  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  ** 


JAMES  LANE  ALLEN  413 

Daphne  followed  in  his  wake,  through  the  deep  grass. 

When  they  reached  the  tree,  they  sat  down  under  the  rayless 
boughs.  Some  sheep  lying  there  ran  round  to  the  other  side  and 
stood  watching  them,  with  a  frightened  look  in  their  clear,  peace- 
ful eyes. 

« What's  the  matter  ?»  he  said,  fanning  his  face,  and  tugging 
with  his  forefinger  to  loosen  his  shirt  collar  from  his  moist  neck. 
He  had  the  manner  of  a  powerful  comrade  who  means  to  succoi 
a  weaker  one. 

^*  Nothing,*  said  Daphne,  like  a  true  woman. 

«Yes,  but  there  is,^*  he  insisted.  "I  got  you  into  trouble.  I 
didn't  think  of  that  when  I  asked  you  to  dance.* 

«  You  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  *  retorted  Daphne,  with  a  flash. 
*  I  danced  for  spite.  * 

He  threw  back  his  head  with  a  peal  of  laughter.  All  at  once 
this  was  broken  off.  He  sat  up,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  lower 
edge  of  the  meadow. 

^^Here  comes  your  father,*  he  said  gravely. 

Daphne  turned.  Her  father  was  riding  slowly  through  the 
bars.     A  wagon-bed  loaded  with  rails  crept  slowly  after  him. 

In  an  instant  the  things  that  had  cost  her  so  much  toil  and 
so  many  tears  to  arrange,  —  her  explanations,  her  justifications, 
and  her  parting, — all  the  reserve  and  the  coldness  that  she  had 
laid  up  in  her  heart,  as  one  fills  high  a  little  ice-house  with  fear 
of  far-off  summer  heat,  —  all  were  quite  gone,  melted  away. 
And  everything  that  he  had  planned  to  tell  her  was  forgotten 
also  at  the  sight  of  that  stern  figure  on  horseback  bearing  un- 
consciously down  upon  them. 

'^  If  I  had  only  kept  my  mouth  shut  about  his  old  fences,® 
he  said  to  himself.  **  Confound  my  bull  I  *  and  he  looked  anx- 
iously at  Daphne,  who  sat  with  her  eyes  riveted  on  her  father. 
The  next  moment  she  had  turned,  and  they  were  laughing  in 
each  other's  faces. 

**  What  shall  I  do  ?  *  she  cried,  leaning  over  and  burying  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  lifting  it  again,  scarlet  with  excitement. 

*^ Don't  do  anything,*  he  said  calmly, 

"  But  Hilary,  if  he  sees  us,  we  are  lost.  * 

**  If  he  sees  us,  we  are  found.  * 

*  But  he  mustn't  see  me  here !  *  she  cried,  with  something 
like  real  terror.  *^  I  believe  I'll  lie  down  in  the  grass.  Maybe 
he'll  think  I  am  a  friend  of  yours.* 


414  JAMES  LANE   ALLEN 

^'  My  friends  all  sit  up  in  the  grass,  '*  said  Hilary. 

But  Daphne  had  already  hidden. 

Many  a  time,  when  a  little  girl,  she  had  amused  herself  by 
screaming  like  a  hawk  at  the  young  guineas,  and  seeing  them 
cuddle  invisible  under  small  tufts  and  weeds.  Out  in  the  stable 
lot,  where  the  grass  was  grazed  so  close  that  the  geese  could 
barely  nip  it,  she  would  sometimes  get  one  of  the  negro  men 
to  scare  the  little  pigs,  for  the  delight  of  seeing  them  squat  as 
though  hidden,  when  they  were  no  more  hidden  than  if  they 
had  spread  themselves  out  upon  so  many  dinner  dishes.  All  of 
us  reveal  traces  of  this  primitive  instinct  upon  occasion.  Daphne 
was  doing  hef  best  to  hide  now. 

When  Hilary  realized  it  he  moved  in  front  of  her,  screening 
her  as  well  as  possible. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  lie  down,  too  ? "  she  asked. 

*^  No,  ^^  he  replied  quickly. 

'^  But  if  he  sees  you,  he  might  take  a  notion  to  ride  over  this 


way 


t » 


"Then  he'll  have  to  ride.'* 

*But,  Hilary,  suppose  he  were  to  find  me  lying  down  here 
behind  you,  hiding  ?  " 

"Then  he'll  have  to  find  you." 

"You  get  me  into  trouble,  and  then  you  won't  help  me  out!" 
exclaimed  Daphne  with  considerable  heat. 

"It  might  not  make  matters  any  better  for  me  to  hide,"  he 
answered  quietly,  "But  if  he  comes  over  here  and  tries  to  get 
us  into  trouble,  I'll  see  then  what  I  can  do." 

Daphne  lay  silent  for  a  moment,  thinking.  Then  she  nestled 
more  closely  down,  and  said  with  gay,  unconscious  archness: 
"I'm  not  hiding  because  I'm  afraid  of  him.  I'm  doing  it  just 
because  I  want  to." 

She  did  not  know  that  the  fresh  happiness  flushing  her  at 
that  moment  came  from  the  fact  of  having  Hilary  between  her- 
self and  her  father  as  a  protector;  that  she  was  drinking  in  the 
delight  a  woman  feels  in  getting  playfully  behind  the  man  she 
loves  in  the  face  of  danger:  but  her  action  bound  her  to  him 
and  brought  her  more  under  his  influence. 

His  words  showed  that  he  also  felt  his  position, — the  position 
of  the  male  who  stalks  forth  from  the  herd  and  stands  the  silent 
challenger.  He  was  young,  and  vain  of  his  manhood  in  the 
usual    innocent    way    that    led    him    to    carry    the    chip    on    his 


JAMES  LANE   ALLEN  41^ 

shoulder  for  the  world  to  knock  off;  and  he  placed  himself 
before  Daphne  with  the  understanding  that  if  they  were  discov- 
ered, there  would  be  trouble.  Her  father  was  a  violent  man, 
and  the  'circumstances  were  not  such  that  any  Kentucky  father 
would  overlook  them.  But  with  his  inward  seriousness,  his  face 
wore  its  usual  look  of  reckless  unconcern. 

"  Is  he  coming  this  way  ?  **  asked  Daphne,  after  an  interval  of 
impatient  waiting. 

*^  Straight  ahead.     Are  you  hid  ?  " 

<*  I  can't  see  whether  I'm  hid  or  not.     Where  is  he  now  ?  * 

"  Right  on  us.  ^* 

*  Does  he  see  you  ?  ** 

«  Yes. » 

"  Do  you  think  he  sees  me  ?  ** 

"  I'm  sure  of  it.*' 

**  Then  I  might  as  well  get  up,  '*  said  Daphne,  with  the  cour- 
age of  despair,  and  up  she  got.  Her  father  was  riding  along 
the  path  in  front  of  them,  but  not  looking.  She  was  down 
again  like  a  partridge. 

*'  How  could  you  fool  me,  Hilary  ?  Suppose  he  /tad  be^n 
looking !  ** 

<^  I  wonder  what  he  thinks  I'm  doing,  sitting  over  here  in  the 
grass  like  a  stump,**  said  Hilary.  "If  he  takes  me  for  one,  he 
must  think  I've  got  an  awful  lot  of  roots." 

"Tell  me  when  it's  time  to  get  up.** 

«I  will.** 

He  turned  softly  toward  her.  She  was  lying  on  her  side,  with 
her  burning  cheek  in  one  hand.  The  other  hand  rested  high  on 
the  curve  of  her  hip.  Her  braids  had  fallen  forward,  and  lay  in 
a  heavy  loop  about  her  lovely  shoulders.  Her  eyes  were  closed, 
her  scarlet  lips  parted  in  a  smile.  The  edges  of  her  snow-white 
petticoats  showed  beneath  her  blue  dress,  and  beyond  these  one 
of  her  feet  and  ankles.  Nothing  more  fragrant  with  innocence 
ever  lay  on  the  grass. 

"Is  it  time  to  get  up  now  ?  ** 

"  Not  yet,  **  and  he  sat  bending  over  her. 

«  Now  ?  ** 

"  Not  yet,  **  he  repeated  more  softly. 

«  Now,  then  ?  ** 

"  Not  for  a  long  time.  ** 

His  voice  thrilled  her,  and  she  glanced  up  at  him.  His  laugh- 
ing eyes  were  glowing  down  upon   her  under  his  heavy  mat   of 


41 6  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

hair.  She  sat  up  and  looked  toward  the  wagon  crawling  away  m 
the  distance;  her  father  was  no  longer  in  sight. 

One  of  the  ewes,  dissatisfied  with  a  back  view,  stamped  her 
forefoot  impatiently,  and  ran  round  in  front,  and  out  into  the 
sun.  Her  lambs  followed,  and  the  three,  ranging  themselves 
abreast,  stared  at  Daphne,  with  a  look  of  helpless  inquiry. 

*Sh-pp-pp!**  she  cried,  throwing  up  her  hands  at  them,  irri- 
tated.    "  Go  away !  ^^ 

They  turned  and  ran;  the  others  followed;  and  the  whole 
number,  falling  into  line,  took  a  path  meekly  homeward.  They 
left  a  greater  sense  of  privacy  under  the  tree.  Several  yards  off 
was  a  small  stock-pond.  Around  the  edge  of  this  the  water 
stood  hot  and  green  in  the  tracks  of  the  cattle  and  the  sheep, 
and  about  these  pools  the  yellow  butterflies  were  thick,  alighting 
daintily  on  the  promontories  of  the  mud,  or  rising  two  by  two 
through  the  dazzling  atmosphere  in  columns  of  enamored  flight. 

Daphne  leaned  over  to  the  blue  grass  where  it  swayed  un- 
broken in  the  breeze,  and  drew  out  of  their  sockets  several  stalks 
3f  it,  bearing  on  their  tops  the  purplish  seed-vessels.  With  them 
she  began  to  braid  a  ring  about  one  of  her  fingers  in  the  old 
simple  fashion  of  the  country. 

As  they  talked,  he  lay  propped  on  his  elbow,  watching  her 
fingers,  the  soft  slow  movements  of  which  little  by  little  wove  a 
spell  over  his  eyes.  And  once  again  the  power  of  her  beauty 
began  to  draw  him  beyond  control.  He  felt  a  desire  to  seize  her 
tiands,  to  crush  them  in  his.  His  eyes  passed  upward  along  her 
:;apering  wrists,  the  skin  of  which  was  like  mother-of-pearl;  up- 
ward along  the  arm  to  the  shoulder — to  her  neck — to  her  deeply 
crimsoned  cheeks  —  to  the  purity  of  her  brow  —  to  the  purity  of 
tier  eyes,  the  downcast  lashes  of  which  hid  them  like  conscious 
fringes. 

An  awkward  silence  began  to  fall  between  them.  Daphne 
felt  that  the  time  had  come  for  her  to  speak.  But,  powerless 
to  begin,  she  feigned  to  busy  herself  all  the  more  devotedly 
with  braiding  the  deep-green  circlet.  Suddenly  he  drew  himself 
through  the  grass  to  her  side. 

«Let  me!^'* 

*  No ! '"  she  cried,  lifting  her  arm  above  his  reach  and  looking 
at  him  with  a  gay  threat.     *^You  don't  know  how.'* 

*  I  do  know  how,  **  he  said,  with  his  white  teeth  on  his  red 
imderlip,  and  his  eyes  sparkling;  and  reaching  upward,  he  laid 
bis  hand  in  the  hollow  of  her  elbow  and  pulled  her  arm  down. 


JAMES  LANE  ALLEN  4x7 

®No!  No!*  she  cried  again,  putting  her  hands  behind  her 
back.     "  You  will  spoil  it !  * 

"  I  will  not  spoil  it,  *^  he  said,  moving  so  close  to  her  that  his 
breath  was  on  her  face,  and  reaching  round  to  unclasp  her  hands. 

"  No !  No !  No  I  *  she  cried,  bending  away  from  him.  I  don't 
want  any  ring!  *  and  she  tore  it  from  her  finger  and  threw  it  out 
on  the  grass.  Then  she  got  up,  and,  brushing  the  grass-seed  off 
her  lap,  put  on  her  hat. 

He  sat  cross-legged  on  the  gfrass  before  her.  He  had  put  on 
his  hat,  and  the  brim  hid  his  eyes. 

*  And  you  are  not  going  to  stay  and  talk  to  me  ?  ®  he  said  in 
a  tone  of  reproachfulness,  without  looking  up. 

She  was  excited  and  weak  and  trembling,  and  so  she  put  out 
her  hand  and  took  hold  of  a  strong  loop  of  the  grape-vine  hang- 
ing from  a  branch  of  the  thorn,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  her 
hand  and  looked  away  from  him. 

"I  thought  you  were  better  than  the  others,*  he  continued, 
with  the  bitter  wisdom  of  twenty  years.  *But  you  women  are 
all  alike.  When  a  man  gets  into  trouble,  you  desert  him.  You 
hurry  him  on  to  the  devil.  I  have  been  turned  out  of  the 
church,  and  now  you  are  down  on  me.  Oh,  well!  But  you 
know  how  much  I  have  always  liked  you.  Daphne.* 

It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  acted  this  character.  It  had 
been  a  favorite  role.  But  Daphne  had  never  seen  the  like.  She 
was  overwhelmed  with  happiness  that  he  cared  so  much  for  her; 
and  to  have  him  reproach  her  for  indifference,  and  see  him  suf- 
fering with  the  idea  that  she  had  turned  against  him  —  that 
instantly  changed  the  whole  situation.  He  had  not  heard  then 
what  had  taken  place  at  the  dinner.  Under  the  circumstances, 
feeling  certain  that  the  secret  of  her  love  had  not  been  dis- 
covered, she  grew  emboldened  to  risk  a  little  more. 

So  she  turned  toward  him  smiling,  and  swayed  gently  as  she 
clung  to  the  vine. 

"Yes;  I  have  my  orders  not  even  to  speak  to  you!  Never 
again !  *  she  said,  with  the  air  of  tantalizing. 

*Then  stay  with  me  a  while  now,*  he  said,  and  lifted  slowly 
to  her  his  appealing  face.  She  sat  down,  and  screened  herself 
with  a  little  feminine  transparency. 

®  I  can't  stay  long :  it's  going  to  rain !  * 

He  cast  a  wicked  glance  at  the  sky  from  under  his  hat;  there 
were  a  few  clouds  on  the  horizon. 


4i8  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

**And  SO  you  are  never  going  to  speak  to  me  again?*  he 
said  mournfully. 

*  Never  !'^     How  delicious  her  laughter  was. 

"  I'll  put  a  ring  on  your  finger  to  remember  me  by,  * 

He  lay  over  in  the  grass  and  pulled  several  stalks.  Then  he 
lifted  his  eyes  beseechingly  to  hers. 

«Will  you  let  me?» 

Daphne  hid  her  hands.  He  drew  himself  to  her  side  and 
took  one  of  them  forcibly  from  her  lap. 

With  a  slow,  caressing  movement  he  began  to  braid  the 
grass  ring  around  her  finger  —  in  and  out,  around  and  around, 
his  fingers  laced  with  her  fingers,  his  palm  lying  close  upon  her 
palm,  his  blood  tingling  through  the  skin  upon  her  blood.  He 
made  the  briaiding  go  wrong,  and  took  it  off  and  began  over 
again.  Two  or  three  times  she  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  stole  a 
bewildered  look  at  his  face,  which  was  so  close  to  hers  that  his 
hair  brushed  it  —  so  close  that  she  heard  the  quiver  of  his  own 
breath.  Then  all  at  once  he  folded  his  hands  about  hers  with  a 
quick,  fierce  tenderness,  and  looked  up  at  her.  She  turned  her 
face  aside  and  tried  to  draw  her  hand  away.  His  clasp  tight- 
ened.    She  snatched  it  away,  and  got  up  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

**  Look  at  the  butterflies !     Aren't  they  pretty  ?  * 

He  sprang  up  and  tried  to  seize  her  hand  again. 

**  You  shan't  go  home  yet !  *  he  said,  in  an  undertone. 

^*  Shan't  I  ?  *  she  said,  backing  away  from  him.  **  Who's 
going  to  keep  me  ?  * 

**  /  afn, "  he  said,  laughing  excitedly  and  following  her  closely. 

^^My  father's  coming!*  she  cried  out  as  a  v/aming. 

He  turned  and  looked:  there  was  no  one  in  sight. 

*He  is  coming — sooner  or  later!*  she  called. 

She  had  retreated  several  yards  off  into  the  sunlight  of  the 
meadow. 

The  remembrance  of  the  risk  that  he  was  causing  her  to  run 
checked  him.     He  went  over  to  her. 

**  When  can  I  see  you  again  —  soon  ?  * 

He  had  never  spoken  so  seriously  to  her  before.  He  had 
never  before  been  so  serious.  But  within  the  last  hour  Nature 
had  been  doing  her  work,  and  its  effect  was  immediate.  His 
sincerity  instantly  conquered  her.     Her  eyes  fell. 

"No  one  has  any  right  to  keep  us  from  seeing  each  other!* 
he  insisted      "We  must  settle  that  for  ourselves.* 


JAMES  LANE  ALLEN  41  g 

Daphne  made  no  reply, 

"But  we  can't  meet  here  any  more — with  people  passing 
backward  and  forward !  *^  he  continued  rapidly  and  decisively. 
"What  has  happened  to-day  mustn't  happen  again.® 

"  No !  **  she  replied,  in  a  voice  barely  to  be  heard.  "  It  must 
never  happen  again.     We  can't  meet  here.* 

They  were  walking  side  by  side  now  toward  the  meadow- 
path.     As  they  reached  it  he  paused. 

"Come  to  the  back  of  the  pasture  —  to-morrow  I  —  at  four 
o'clock !  *  he  said,  tentatively,  recklessly. 

Daphne  did  not  answer  as  she  moved  away  from  him  along 
the  path  homeward. 

"  Will  you  come  ?  '*  he  called  out  to  her. 

She  turned  and  shook  her  head.  Whatever  her  own  new 
plans  may  have  become,  she  was  once  more  happy  and  laugh- 
ing. 

"Come,  Daphne!* 

She  walked  several  paces  further  and  turned  and  shook  her 
head  again. 

"  Come !  "  he  pleaded. 

She  laughed  at  him. 

He  wheeled  round  to  his  mare  grazing  near.  As  he  put  his 
foot  into  the  stirrup,  he  looked  again:  she  was  standing  in  the 
same  place,  laughing  still. 

"  You  go,*  she  cried,  waving  him  good-by.  "There'll  not  be 
a  soul  to  disturb  you!     To-morrow  —  at  four  o'clock!* 

"  Will  you  be  there  ?  *  he  said. 

"  Will  you  ?  *  she  answered. 

"I'll  be  there  to-morrow,*  he  said,  "and  every  other  day  till 

you  come.* 

By  permission  of  the  Macmillan  Company,  Publishers. 


OLD   KING  SOLOMON'S  CORONATION 

From  < Flute  and  Violin,  and  Other  Kentucky  Tales  and  Romances* 
Copyright  1 89 1,  by  Harper  and  Brothers 

HE   STOOD  on  the  topmost  of  the  court-house  steps,  and  for  a 
moment  looked  down   on  the  crowd  with  the  usual  air  of 
ofi&cial  severity. 
"Gentlemen,*  he  then  cried  out  sharply,  "by  an  ordah  of  the 
cou't  I  now  ofifah  this  roan  at  public  sale  to  the  highes'  biddah. 


420  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

He  is  able-bodied  but  lazy,  without  visible  property  or  means  of 
suppoht,  an'  of  dissolute  habits.  He  is  therefoh  adjudged  guilty 
of  high  misdemeanahs,  an'  is  to  be  sole  into  labah  foh  a  twelve- 
month. How  much,  then,  am  I  offahed  foh  the  vagrant  ?  How 
much  am  I  offahed  foh  ole  King  Sol'mon  ?  ** 

Nothing  was  offered  for  old  King  Solomon.  The  spectators 
formed  themselves  into  a  ring  around  the  big  vagrant,  and  settled 
down  to  enjoy  the  performance, 

"Staht  'im,  somebody." 

Somebody  started  a  laugh,  which  rippled  around  the  circle. 

The  sheriff  looked  on  with  an  expression  of  unrelaxed  severity, 
but  catching  the  eye  of  an  acquaintance  on  the  outskirts,  he  ex- 
changed a  lightning  wink  of  secret  appreciation.  Then  he  lifted 
off  his  tight  beaver  hat,  wiped  out  of  his  eyes  a  little  shower  of 
perspiration  which  rolled  suddenly  down  from  above,  and  warmed 
a  degree  to  his  theme. 

"Come,  gentlemen,"  he  said  more  suasively,  "it's  too  hot  to 
Stan'  heah  all  day.  Make  me  an  offahl  You  all  know  ole  King 
Sol'mon;  don't  wait  to  be  interduced.  How  much,  then,  to  staht 
•im?  Say  fifty  dollahs!  Twenty-five!  Fifteen!  Ten!  Why, 
gentlemen !  Not  ten  dollahs  ?  Remembah,  this  is  the  Blue-Grass 
Region  of  Kentucky  —  the  land  of  Boone  an'  Kenton,  the  home 
of  Henry  Clay ! "  he  added,  in  an  oratorical  crescendo. 

"He  ain't  wuth  his  victuals,"  said  an  oily  little  tavern-keeper, 
folding  his  arms  restfully  over  his  own  stomach  and  cocking  up 
one  piggish  eye  into  his  neighbor's  face.  "  He  ain't  wuth  his 
'taters.* 

"Buy  'im  foh  'is  rags!"  cried  a  young  law  student,  with  a 
Blackstone  under  his  arm,  to  the  town  rag  picker  opposite,  who 
was  unconsciously  ogling  the  vagrant's  apparel. 

"I  might  buy  'im  foh  'is  scalp, ^^  drawled  a  farmer,  who  had 
taken  part  in  all  kinds  of  scalp  contests,  and  was  now  known  to 
be  busily  engaged  in  collecting  crow  scalps  for  a  match  soon  to 
come  off  between  two  rival  counties. 

"I  think  I'll  buy  'im  foh  a  hat  sign,"  said  a  manufacturer  of 
ten-dollar  Castor  and  Rhorum  hats.  This  sally  drew  merry  atten- 
tion to  the  vagrant's  hat,  and  the  merchant  felt  rewarded. 

"You'd  bettah  say  the  town  ought  to  buy  'im  an'  put  'im  up 
on  top  of  the  cou't-house  as  a  scarecrow  foh  the  cholera,"  said 
some  one  else. 

"What  news  of  the  cholera  did  the  stage  coach  bring  this 
mohning  ? "  quickly  inquired  his  neighbor  in  his  ear ;  and  the  two 


JAMES  LANE  ALLEN  42 1 

immediately  fell  into  low,  grave  talk,  forgot  the  auction,  and 
turned  away. 

"  Stop,  gentlemen,  stop !  *  cried  the  sheriff,  who  had  watched 
the  rising  tide  of  good  humor,  and  now  saw  his  chance  to  float 
in  on  it  with  spreading  sails.  "  You're  runnin'  the  price  in  the 
wrong  direction  —  down,  not  up.  The  law  requires  that  he  be 
sole  to  the  highes'  biddah,  not  the  lowes'.  As  loyal  citizens, 
uphole  the  constitution  of  the  commonwealth  of  Kentucky  an' 
make  me  an  offah;  the  man  is  really  a  great  bargain.  In  the 
first  place,  he  would  cos'  his  ownah  little  or  nothin',  because,  as 
you  see,  he  keeps  himself  in  cigahs  an'  clo'es;  then,  his  main 
article  of  diet  is  whisky  —  a  supply  of  which  he  always  has  on 
han*.  He  don't  even  need  a  bed,  foh  you  know  he  sleeps  jus' 
as  well  on  any  doohstep;  noh  a  chair,  foh  he  prefers  to  sit  roun' 
on  the  curbstones.  Remembah,  too,  gentlemen,  that  ole  King 
Sol'mon  is  a  Virginian  —  from  the  same  neighbohhood  as  Mr. 
Clay.  Remembah  that  he  is  well  educated,  that  he  is  an  awfui 
Whig,  an'  that  he  has  smoked  mo'  of  the  stumps  of  Mr.  Clay's 
cigahs  than  any  other  man  in  existence.  If  you  don't  b'lieve  wr, 
gentlemen,  yondah  goes  Mr.  Clay  now;  call  him  ovah  an'  ask 
'im  foh  yo'se'ves.'* 

He  paused,  and  pointed  with  his  right  forefinger  towards 
Main  Street,  along  which  the  spectators,  with  a  sudden  craning 
of  necks,  beheld  the  familiar  figure  of  the  passing  statesman. 

"But  you  don't  need  anfoo^y  to  tell  these  fac's,  gentlemen," 
he  continued.  "  You  merely  need  to  be  reminded  that  ole  King 
Sol'mon  is  no  ohdinary  man.  Mo'ovah  he  has  a  kine  heaht;  he 
nevah  spoke  a  rough  wohd  to  anybody  in  this  worl',  an'  he  is  as 
proud  as  Tecumseh  of  his  good  name  an'  charactah.  An',  gentle- 
men," he  added,  bridling  with  an  air  of  mock  gallantry  and  lay- 
ing a  hand  on  his  heart,  "if  anythin'  fu'thah  is  required  in  the 
way  of  a  puffect  encomium,  we  all  know  that  there  isn't  anothah 
man  among  us  who  cuts  as  wide  a  swath  among  the  ladies. 
The'foh,  if  you  have  any  appreciation  of  virtue,  any  magnanimity 
of  heaht;  if  you  set  a  propah  valuation  upon  the  descendants  of 
Virginia,  that  mothah  of  Presidents;  if  you  believe  in  the  pure 
laws  of  Kentucky  as  the  pioneer  bride  of  the  Union;  if  you  love 
America  an'  love  the  worl' — make  me  a  gen'rous,  high-toned 
offah  foh  ole  King  Sol'mon ! " 

He  ended  his  peroration  amid  a  shout  of  laughter  and  ap- 
plause, and  feeling  satisfied  that  it  was  a  good  time  for  returning 


^2  2  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

to  a  more  practical  treatment  of  his  subject,  proceeded  in  a  sin- 
cere tone: — 

*He  can  easily  earn  from  one  to  two  dollahs  a  day,  an'  from 
three  to  six  hundred  a  yeah.  There's  not  anothah  white  man  in 
town  capable  of  doin'  as  much  work.  There's  not  a  niggah  han' 
in  the  hemp  factories  with  such  muscles  an'  such  a  chest.  Look 
at  'em!  An',  if  you  don't  b'lieve  me,  step  fo'ward  and  feel  'em. 
How  much,  then,  is  bid  foh  'im  ?  ** 

"  One  dollah ! "  said  the  owner  of  a  hemp  factory,  who  had 
walked  forward  and  felt  the  vagrant's  arm,  laughing,  but  coloring 
up  also  as  the  eyes  of  all  were  quickly  turned  upon  him.  In 
those  days  it  was  not  an  unheard-of  thing  for  the  muscles  of  a 
human  being  to  be  thus  examined  when  being  sold  into  servitude 
to  a  new  master. 

**  Thank  you ! "  cried  the  sheriff,  cheerily.  *  One  precinc' 
heard  from!  One  dollah!  I  am  offahed  one  dollah  foh  ole  King 
Sol'mon.  One  dollah  foh  the  king!  Make  it  a  half.  One  dollah 
an'  a  half.     Make  it  a  half.     One  dol-dol-dol-dollah !  ** 

Two  medical  students,  returning  from  lectures  at  the  old  Med- 
ical Hall,  now  joined  the  group,  and  the  sheriff  explained:  — 

**  One  dollah  is  bid  foh  the  vagrant  ole  King  Sol'mon,  who  is 
to  be  sole  into  labah  foh  a  twelvemonth.  Is  there  any  othah 
bid?    Are  you  all  done?     One  dollah,  once — ** 

<*  Dollah  and  a  half,  **  said  one  of  the  students,  and  remarked 
half  jestingly  under  his  breath  to  his  companion,  "  I'll  buy  him 
on  the  chance  of  his  dying.     We'll  dissect  him.** 

*  Would  you  own  his  body  if  he  should  die  ? " 

**  If  he  dies  while  bound  to  me,  I'll  arrange  tJiat.  ** 

<*One  dollah  an'  a  half,*  resumed  the  sheriff,  and  falling  into 
the  tone  of  a  facile  auctioneer  he  rattled  on:  — 

^*One  dollah  an'  a  half  foh  ole  Sol'mon  —  sol,  sol,  sol, —  do,  re, 
mi,  fa,  sol, —  do,  re,  mi,  fa,  sol!  Why,  gentlemen,  you  can  set 
the  king  to  music !  ** 

All  this  time  the  vagrant  had  stood  in  the  centre  of  that  close 
ring  of  jeering  and  humorous  bystanders  —  a  baffling  text  from 
which  to  have  preached  a  sermon  on  the  infirmities  of  our  imper- 
fect humanity.  Some  years  before,  perhaps  as  a  master-stroke  of 
derision,  there  had  been  given  to  him  that  title  which  could  but 
heighten  the  contrast  of  his  personality  and  estate  with  every 
suggestion  of  the  ancient  sacred  magnificence;  and  never  had  the 
mockery   seemed   so   fine   as  at  this  moment,   when   he   was  led 


JAMES  LANE  ALLEN  423 

forth  into  the  streets  to  receive  the  lowest  sentence  of  the  law 
upon  his  poverty  and  dissolute  idleness.  He  was  apparently  in 
the  very  prime  of  life  —  a  striking  figure,  for  nature  at  least  had 
truly  done  some  royal  work  on  him.  Over  six  feet  in  height, 
erect,  with  limbs  well  shaped  and  sinewy,  with  chest  and  neck  full 
of  the  lines  of  great  power,  a  large  head  thickly  covered  with  long, 
reddish  hair,  eyes  blue,  face  beardless,  complexion  fair  but  dis- 
colored by  low  passions  and  excesses — such  was  old  King  Solo- 
mon. He  wore  a  stiff,  high,  black  Castor  hat  of  the  period,  with 
the  crown  smashed  in  and  the  torn  rim  hanging  down  over  one 
ear;  a  black  cloth  coat  in  the  old  style,  ragged  and  buttonless;  a 
white  cotton  shirt,  with  the  broad  collar  crumpled  wide  open  at 
the  neck  and  down  his  sunburnt  bosom;  blue  jean  pantaloons, 
patched  at  the  seat  and  the  knees;  and  ragged  cotton  socks  that 
fell  down  over  the  tops  of  his  dusty  shoes,  which  were  open  at 
the  heels. 

In  one  comer  of  his  sensual  mouth  rested  the  stump  of  a 
cigar.  Once  during  the  proceedings  he  had  produced  another, 
lighted  it,  and  continued  quietly  smoking.  If  he  took  to  himself 
any  shame  as  the  central  figure  of  this  ignoble  performance,  no 
one  knew  it.  There  was  something  almost  royal  in  his  uncon^ 
cem.  The  humor,  the  badinage,  the  open  contempt,  of  which  he 
was  the  public  target,  fell  thick  and  fast  upon  him,  but  as  harm- 
.lessly  as  would  balls  of  pith  upon  a  coat  of  mail.  In  truth,  there 
was  that  in  his  great,  lazy,  gentle,  good-humored  bulk  and  bear- 
ing which  made  the  gibes  seem  all  but  despicable.  He  shuffled 
from  one  foot  to  the  other  as  though  he  found  it  a  trial  to  stand 
up  so  long,  but  all  the  while  looking  the  spectators  full  in  the 
eyes  without  the  least  impatience.  He  suffered  the  man  of  the 
factory  to  walk  round  him  and  push  and  pinch  his  muscles  as 
calmly  as  though  he  had  been  the  show  bull  at  a  country  fair. 
Once  only,  when  the  sheriff  had  pointed  across  the  street  at  the 
figure  of  Mr.  Clay,  he  had  looked  quickly  in  that  direction  with 
a  kindling  light  in  his  eye  and  a  passing  flush  on  his  face.  For 
the  rest,  he  seemed  like  a  man  who  has  drained  his  cup  of  human 
life  and  has  nothing  left  him  but  to  fill  again  and  drink  without 
the  least  surprise  or  eagerness. 

The  bidding  between  the  man  of  the  factor}^  and  the  student 
had  gone  slowly  on.  The  price  had  reached  ten  dollars.  The 
heat  was  intense,  the  sheriff  tired.  Then  something  occurred  to 
revivify  the  scene.     Across  the  market  place  and  toward  the  steps 


^24  JAMES   LANE   ALLEN 

of  the  court-house  there  suddenly  came  trundling  along  in  breath- 
less haste  a  huge  old  negress,  carrying  on  one  arm  a  large  shal- 
low basket  containing  apple-crab  lanterns  and  fresh  gingerbread. 
With  a  series  of  half -articulate  grunts  and  snorts  she  approached 
the  edge  of  the  crowd  and  tried  to  force  her  way  through.  She 
coaxed,  she  begged,  she  elbowed  and  pushed  and  scolded,  now 
laughing,  and  now  with  the  passion  of  tears  in  her  thick,  excited 
voice.  All  at  once,  catching  sight  of  the  sheriff,  she  lifted  one 
ponderous  brown  arm,  naked  to  the  elbow,  and  waved  her  hand 
to  him  above  the  heads  of  those  in  front. 

"Hole  on  marster!  hole  on!*  she  cried  in  a  tone  of  humorous 
entreaty.     "  Don'  knock  'im  off  till  I  come !    Gim  me  a  bid  at  'im  ■  ** 

The  sheriff  paused  and  smiled.  The  crowd  made  way  tumult- 
uously,  with  broad  laughter  and  comment. 

**  Stan'  aside  theah  an'  let  Aun'  Charlotte  in !  * 

*  Now  you'll  see  biddin' !  '* 

*Get  out  of  the  way  foh  Aun'  Charlotte!" 

*  Up,  my  free  niggah !     Hurrah  foh  Kentucky !  * 

A  moment  more  and  she  stood  inside  the  ring  of  spectators, 
her  basket  on  the  pavement  at  her  feet,  her  hands  plumped 
akimbo  into  her  fathomless  sides,  her  head  up,  and  her  soft, 
motherly  eyes  turned  eagerly  upon  the  sheriff.  Of  the  crowd 
she  seemed  unconscious,  and  on  the  vagrant  before  her  she  had 
not  cast  a  single  glance. 

She  was  dressed  with  perfect  neatness.  A  red  and  yellow 
Madras  'kerchief  was  bound  about  her  head  in  a  high  coil,  and 
another  over  the  bosom  of  her  stiffly  starched  and  smoothly 
ironed  blue  cottonade  dress.  Rivulets  of  perspiration  ran  down 
over  her  nose,  her  temples,  and  around  her  ears,  and  disappeared 
mysteriously  in  the  creases  of  her  brown  neck.  A  single  drop 
accidentally  hung  glistening  like  a  diamond  on  the  circlet  of  one 
of  her  large  brass  earrings. 

The  sheriff  looked  at  her  a  moment,  smiling  but  a  little  dis- 
concerted.    The  spectacle  was  unprecedented. 

**  What  do  you  want  heah,  Aun'  Charlotte  ?  '*  he  asked  kindly. 
*You  can't  sell  yo'  pies  an'  gingerbread  heah." 

**I  don'  wan'  sell  no  pies  en  gingerbread,'*  she  replied,  con- 
temptuously. "I  wan'  bid  on  him,^'*  and  she  nodded  sidewise  at 
the  vagrant,  **  White  folks  allers  sellin'  niggahs  to  wuk  fuh 
dent;  I  gwine  to  buy  a  white  man  to  wuk  fuh  me.  En  he 
gwine  t'  git  a  mighty  hard  mistiss,  you  heah  me/  * 


JAMES  LANE  ALLEN  425 

The  eyes  of  the  sheriff  twinkled  with  delight. 

"Ten  doUahs  is  offahed  foh  ole  King  Sol'mon,  Is  theah  any 
othah  bid.     Are  you  all  done  ?  *^ 

*Leben,*  she  said. 

Two  young  ragamuffins  crawled  among  the  legs  of  the  crowd 
up  to  her  basket  and  filched  pies  and  cake  beneath  her  very 
nose. 

"  Twelve !  '*  cried  the  student,  laughing. 

"  Thirteen !  *^  she  laughed,  too,  but  her  eyes  flashed. 

*  Vou  are  bidding  against  a  niggah^^'*  whispered  the  student's 
companion  in  his  ear. 

"So  I  am;  let's  be  off,**  answered  the  other,  with  a  hot  flush 
on  his  proud  face. 

Thus  the  sale  was  ended,  and  the  crowd  variously  dispersed. 
In  a  distant  corner  of  the  courtyard  the  ragged  urchins  were 
devouring  their  unexpected  booty.  The  old  negress  drew  a  red 
handkerchief  out  of  her  bosom,  untied  a  knot  in  a  corner  of  it, 
and  counted  out  the  money  to  the  sheriff.  Only,  she  and  the 
vagrant  were  now  left  on  the  spot. 

"  You  have  bought  me.  What  do  you  want  me  to  do '  **  he 
asked  quietly. 

"  Lohd,  honey !  **  she  answered,  in  a  low  tone  of  affectionate 
chiding,  "  I  don'  wan'  you  to  do  nothin'' !  I  wuzn'  gwine  t'  'low 
dem  white  folks  to  buy  you.  Dey'd  wuk  you  till  you  dropped 
dead.     You  go  'long  en  do  ez  you  please." 

She  gave  a  cunning  chuckle  of  triumph  in  thus  setting  at 
naught  the  ends  of  justice,  and  in  a  voice  rich  and  musical 
with  affection,  she  said,  as  she  gave  him  a  little  push:  — 

"You  bettah  be  gittin'  out  o'  dis  blazin'  sun.  G'  on  home!  I 
be  'long  by-en-by.* 

He  turned  and  moved  slowly  away  in  the  direction  of  Water 
Street,  where  she  lived;  and  she,  taking  up  her  basket,  shuffled 
across  the  market  place  toward  Cheapside,  muttering  to  herself 
the  while:  — 

"  I  come  mighty  nigh  gittin'  dar  too  late,  foolin'  'long  wid 
dese  pies.  Sellin'  him  'ca'se  he  don'  wuk!  Umph!  if  all  de  men 
in  dis  town  dat  don'  wuk  wuz  to  be  tuk  up  en  sole,  d'  wouldn' 
be  'nough  money  in  de  town  to  buy  em!  Don'  I  see  'em  settin' 
roun'  dese  taverns  f 'om  mohnin'  till  night  ?  * 


426  JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

Nature  soon  smiles  upon  her  own  ravages  and  strews  our 
graves  with  flowers,  not  as  memories,  but  for  other  flowers  when 
the  spring  returns. 

It  was  one  cool,  brilliant  morning  late  in  that  autumn.  The 
air  blew  fresh  and  invigorating,  as  though  on  the  earth  there 
were  no  corruption,  no  death.  Far  southward  had  flown  the 
plague.  A  spectator  in  the  open  court  square  might  have  seen 
many  signs  of  life  returning  to  the  town.  Students  hurried 
along,  talking  eagerly.  Merchants  met  for  the  first  time  and 
spoke  of  the  winter  trade.  An  old  negress,  gayly  and  neatly 
dressed,  came  into  the  market  place,  and  sitting  down  on  a  side- 
walk displayed  her  yellow  and  red  apples  and  fragrant  ginger- 
bread. She  hummed  to  herself  an  old  cradle-song,  and  in 
her  soft,  motherly  black  eyes  shone  a  mild,  happy  radiance.  A 
group  of  young  ragamuffins  eyed  her  longingly  from  a  distance. 
Court  was  to  open  for  the  first  time  since  the  spring.  The 
hour  was  early,  and  one  by  one  the  lawyers  passed  slowly  in. 
On  the  steps  of  the  court-house  three  men  were  standing: 
Thomas  Brown,  the  sheriff;  old  Peter  Leuba,  who  had  just 
walked  over  from  his  music  store  on  Main  Street;  and  little 
M.  Giron,  the  French  confectioner.  Each  wore  mourning  on  his 
hat,  and  their  voices  were  low  and  grave. 

*^  Gentlemen,*  the  sheriff  was  saying,  *Mt  was  on  this  very 
spot  the  day  befoah  the  cholera  broke  out  that  I  sole  'im  as  a 
vagrant.  An'  I  did  the  meanes'  thing  a  man  can  evah  do.  I 
her  'im  up  to  public  ridicule  foh  his  weakness  an'  made  spoht 
of  'is  infirmities.  I  laughed  at  'is  povahty  an'  'is  ole  clo'es.  I 
delivahed  on  'im  as  complete  an  oration  of  sarcastic  detraction 
as  I  could  prepare  on  the  spot,  out  of  my  own  meanness  an' 
with  the  vulgah  sympathies  of  the  crowd.  Gentlemen,  if  I  only 
had  that  crowd  heah  now,  an'  ole  King  Sol'mon  standin'  in  the 
midst  of  it,  that  I  might  ask  'im  to  accept  a  humble  public 
apology,  offahed  from  the  heaht  of  one  who  feels  himself  un- 
worthy to  shake  'is  han'!  But  gentlemen,  that  crowd  will  nevah 
reassemble.  Neahly  ev'ry  man  of  them  is  dead,  an'  ole  King 
Sol'mon  buried  them." 

"He  buried  my  friend  Adolphe  Xaupi,**  said  Frangois  Giron, 
touching  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief. 

"There  is  a  case  of  my  best  Jamaica  rum  for  him  whenever 
he  comes  for  it,'*  said  old  Leuba,  clearing  his  throat. 

"But,  gentlemen,  while  we  are  speakin'  of  ole  King  Sol'mon 


JAMES   LANE  ALLEN 


427 


we  ought  not  to  forget  who  it  is  that  has  suppohted  'im.  Yon- 
dah  she  sits  on  the  sidewalk,  sellin'  'er   apples  an'  gingerbread.** 

The  three  men  looked  in  the  direction  indicated. 

"Heah  comes  ole    King  Sol'mon   now,**  exclaimed  the  sheriff. 

Across  the  open  square  the  vagrant  was  seen  walking  slowly 
along  with  his  habitual  air  of  quiet,  unobtrusive  preoccupation. 
A  minute  more  and  he  had  come  over  and  passed  into  the  court- 
house by  a  side  door. 

^^  Is  Mr.  Clay  to  be  in  court  to-day  ?  ** 

**  He  is  expected,  I  think.  ** 

"Then  let's  go  in:  there  will  be  a  crowd.** 

**  I  don't  know:  so  many  are  dead.** 

They  turned  and  entered  and  found  seats  as  quietly  as  pos- 
sible;  for  a  strange  and  sorrowful  hush  brooded  over  the  court- 
room. Until  the  bar  assembled,  it  had  not  been  realized  how 
many  were  gone.  The  silence  was  that  of  a  common  over- 
whelming disaster.  No  one  spoke  with  his  neighbor;  no  one 
observed  the  vagrant  as  he  entered  and  made  his  way  to  a  seat 
on  one  of  the  meanest  benches,  a  little  apart  from  the  others. 
He  had  not  sat  there  since  the  day  of  his  indictment  for 
vagrancy.  The  judge  took  his  seat,  and  making  a  great  effort 
to  control  himself,  passed  his  eyes  slowly  over  the  court-room. 
All  at  once  he  caught  sight  of  old  King  Solomon  sitting  against 
the  wall  in  an  obscure  corner;  and  before  any  one  could  know 
what  he  was  doing,  he  had  hurried  down  and  walked  up  to  the 
vagrant  and  grasped  his  hand.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not. 
Old  King  Solomon  had  buried  his  wife  and  daughter, — buried 
them  one  clouded  midnight,  with  no  one  present  but  himself. 

Then  the  oldest  member  of  the  bar  started  up  and  followed 
the  example;  and  then  the  other  members,  rising  by  a  common 
impulse,  filed  slowly  back  and  one  by  one  wrung  that  hard  and 
powerful  hand.  After  them  came  the  other  persons  in  the  court- 
room. The  vagrant,  the  gravedigger,  had  risen  and  stood 
against  the  wall,  at  first  with  a  white  face  and  a  dazed  express- 
ion, not  knowing  what  it  meant;  afterwards,  when  he  under- 
stood it,  his  head  dropped  suddenly  forward  and  his  tears  fell 
thick  and  hot  upon  the  hands  that  he  could  not  see.  And  his 
were  not  the  only  tears.  Not  a  man  in  the  long  file  but  paid 
his  tribute  of  emotion  as  he  stepped  forward  to  honor  that 
image  of  sadly  eclipsed  but  still  effulgent  humanity.  It  was  not 
grief,  it  was  not  gratitude,  nor  any   sense   of  making   reparation 


428 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM 


for  the  past.  It  was  the  softening  influence  of  an  act  of  hero- 
ism, which  makes  every  man  feel  himself,  a  brother  hand  in 
hand  with  every  other;  —  such  power  has  a  single  act  of  moral 
greatness  to  reverse  the  relations  of  men,  lifting  up  one,  and 
bringing  all  others  to  do  him  homage. 

It  was   the   coronation  scene   in  the  life  of  ^Ole^  King  Solo- 
mon of  Kentucky, 


WILLIAM   ALLINGHAM 

(1828-1889) 

^ACH  form  of  verse  has,  in  addition  to  its  laws  of  structure,  a 
subtle  quality  as  difficult  to  define  as  the  perfume  of  a 
SS^iS  flower.  The  poem,  <An  Evening,^  given  below,  may  be 
classified  both  as  a  song  and  as  a  lyric;  yet  it  needs  no  music  other 
than  its  own  rhythms,  and  the  full  close  to  each  verse  which  falls 
upon  the  ear  like  a  soft  and  final  chord  ending  a  musical  composi- 
tion. A  light  touch  and  a  feeling  for  shades  of  meaning  are  required 
to  execute  such  dainty  verse.  In  *  St.  Margaret's  Eve,^  and  in  many 
other  ballads,  Allingham  expresses  the  broader,  more  dramatic  sweep 
of  the  ballad,  and  reveals  his  Celtic  ancestry. 

The  lovable  Irishman,  William  Allingham,  worked  hard  to  enter 
the  brotherhood  of  poets.  When  he  was  only  fourteen  his  father 
took  him  from  school  to  become  clerk  in  the  town  bank  of  which  he 
himself  was  manager.  "  The  books  which  he  had  to  keep  for  the 
next  seven  years  were  not  those  on  which  his  heart  was  set,'*  says 
Mr.  George  Birkbeck  Hill,  But  this  fortune  is  almost  an  inevitable 
part,  and  probably  not  the  worst  part,  of  the  training  for  a  literary 
vocation;  and  he  justified  his  ambitions  by  pluckily  studying  alone 
till  he  had  mastered  Greek,  Latin,  French,  and  German. 

Mr.  Hill,  in  his  *  Letters  of  D.  G.  Rossetti  *  (Atlantic  Monthly, 
May,  1896),  thus  quotes  Allingham's  own  delightful  description  of  his 
early  home  at  Ballyshannon,  County  Donegal :  — 

«The  little  old  town  where  I  was  bom  has  a  voice  of  its  own,  low,  solemn, 
persistent,  humming  through  the  air  day  and  night,  summer  and  winter. 
Whenever  I  think  of  that  town  I  seem  to  hear  the  voice.  The  river  which 
makes  it  rolls  over  rocky  ledges  into  the  tide.  Before  spreads  a  great  ocean  in 
sunshine  or  storm;  behind  stretches  a  many-islanded  lake.  On  the  south  runs 
a  wavy  line  of  blue  mountains;  and  on  the  north,  over  green  rocky  hills  rise 
peaks  of  a  more  distant  range.  The  trees  hide  in  glens  or  cluster  near  the 
river;  gray  rocks  and  bowlders  lie   scattered  about  the  windy  pastures.     The 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  429 

sky  arches  wide  over  all,  giving  room  to  multitudes  of  stars  by  night,  and 
long  processions  of  clouds  blown  from  the  sea;  but  also,  in  the  childish  mem- 
ory where  these  pictures'  live,  to  deeps  of  celestial  blue  in  the  endless  days  of 
summer.  An  odd,  out-of-the-way  Uttle  town,  ours,  on  the  extreme  western 
edge  of  Europe;  our  next  neighbors,  sunset  way,  being  citizens  of  the  great 
new  republic,  which  indeed,  to  our  imagination,  seemed  Uttle  if  at  all  farther 
off  than  England  in  the  opposite  direction. » 

Of  the  cottage  m  which  he  spent  most  of  his  childhood  and 
youth  he  writes:  — 

« Opposite  the  hall  door  a  good-sized  walnut-tree  leaned  its  wrinkled  stem 
towards  the  house,  and  brushed  some  of  the  second-story  panes  with  its 
broad,  fragrant  leaves.  To  sit  at  that  little  upper  window  when  it  was  open  to 
a  summer  twilight,  and  the  great  tree  rustled  gently,  and  sent  one  leafy  spray 
so  far  that  it  even  touched  my  face,  was  an  enchantment  beyond  all  telling. 
Killamey,  Switzerland,  Venice,  could  not,  in  later  life,  come  near  it.  On  three 
sides  the  cottage  looked  on  flowers  and  branches,  which  I  count  as  one  of  the 
fortunate  chances  of  my  childhood;  the  sense  of  natural  beauty  thus  receiving 
\ts  due  share  of  nourishment,  and  of  a  kind  suitable  to  those  early  years.* 

At  last  a  position  in  the  Customs  presented  itself: — 

«In  the  spring  of  1846  I  gladly  took  leave  forever  of  discount  ledgers 
and  current  accounts,  and  went  to  Belfast  for  two  months'  instruction  in  the 
duties  of  Principal  Coast  Ofiicer  of  Customs;  a  tolerably  well-sounding  title, 
but  which  carried  with  it  a  salary  of  but  ;^8o  a  year.  I  .trudged  daily  about 
the  docks  and  timber-yards,  learning  to  measure  logs,  piles  of  planks,  and, 
more  troublesome,  ships  for  tonnage;  indoors,  part  of  the  time  practiced  cus- 
toms book-keeping,  and  talked  to  the  clerks  about  literature  and  poetry  in  a 
way  that  excited  some  astonishment,  but  on  the  whole,  as  I  found  at  parting, 
a  certain  degree  of  curiosity  and  respect.  I  preached  Tennyson  to  them. 
My  spare  time  was  mostly  spent  in  reading  and  haunting  booksellers'  shops 
where,  I  venture  to  say,  I  laid  out  a  good  deal  more  than  most  people,  in  pro- 
portion to  my  income,  and  managed  to  get  glimpses  of  many  books  which  I 
could  not  afford  or  did  not  care  to  buy.  I  enjoyed  my  new  position,  on  the 
whole,  without  analysis,  as  a  g^eat  improvement  on  the  bank;  and  for  the 
rest,  my  inner  mind  was  brimful  of  love  and  poetry,  and  usually  all  external 
things  appeared  trivial  save  in  their  relation  to  it.» 

Of  Allingham's  early  song-writing,  his  friend  Arthur  Hughes 
says : — 

«Rossetti,  and  I  think  AUingham  himself,  told  me  in  the  early  days  of  our 
acquaintance,  how  in  remote  Ballyshannon,  where  he  was  a  clerk  in  the  Cus- 
toms, in  evening  walks  he  would  hear  the  Irish  girls  at  their  cottage  doors 
singing  old  ballads,  which  he  would  pick  up.  If  they  were  broken  or  incom- 
plete, he  would  add  to  them  or  finish  them;  if  they  were  improper  he  would 
refine  them.  He  could  not  get  them  sung  till  he  got  the  Dublin  Catnach  of 
that  day  to  print  them,  on  long  strips  of  blue  paper,  like  old  songs,  and  ii 
about  the  sea.  with  the  old  rough  woodcut  of  a  ship  on  the  top.      He  either 


430 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM 


gave  them  away  or  they  were  sold  in  the  neighborhood.  Then,  in  his  evening 
walks,  he  had  at  last  the  pleasure  of  hearing  some  of  his  own  ballads  sung  at 
the  cottage  doors  by  the  blooming  lasses,  who  were  quite  unaware  that  it  was 
the  author  who  was  passing  by.» 

In  1850  Allingham  published  a  small  volume  of  lyrics  whose  fresh- 
ness and  delicacy  seemed  to  announce  a  new  singer,  and  four  years 
later  his  ^  Day  and  Night  Songs  *  strengthened  this  impression. 
Stationed  as  revenue  officer  in  various  parts  of  England,  lie  wrote 
much  verse,  and  published  also  the  <The  Rambles  of  Patricius  Walker,  > 
a  collection  of  essays  upon  his  walks  through  England;  < Lawrence 
Bloomfield  in  Ireland,  >  the  tale  of  a  young  landlord's  efforts  to 
improve  the  condition  of  his  tenantry;  an  anthology,  < Nightingale 
Valley*  (1862),  and  an  excellent  collection  of  English  ballads,  <The 
Ballad  Book>  (1865). 

In  1870  he  gladly  embraced  an  opportunity  to  leave  the  Customs 
for  the  position  of  assistant  editor  of  Eraser's  Magazine  under  Froude, 
whom  he  afterward  succeeded  as  editor.  He  was  now  a  member  of 
a  brilliant  literary  circle,  knew  Tennyson,  Ruskin,  and  Carlyle,  and 
was  admitted  into  the  warm  friendship  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites.  But 
in  no  way  does  he  reflect  the  Pre-Raphaelite  spirit  by  which  he  was 
surrounded;  nor  does  he  write  his  lyrics  in  the  metres  and  rhythms 
of  mediaeval  France.  He  is  as  oblivious  of  rondeaux,  ballades,  and 
roundels,  as  he. is  of  fair  damosels  with  cygnet  necks  and  full  pome- 
granate lips.  He  is  a  child  of  nature,  whose  verse  is  free  from  all 
artificial  inspiration  or  expression,  and  seems  to  flow  easily,  clearly, 
and  tenderly  from  his  pen.  Some  of  it  errs  in  being  too  fanciful. 
In  the  Flower-Songs,  indeed,  he  sometimes  becomes  trivial  in  his 
comparison  of  each  English  poet  to  a  special  flower;  but  his  poetry 
is  usually  sincere  with  an  undercurrent  of  pathos,  as  in  <The  Ruined 
Chapel,*  *The  Winter  Pear,*  and  the  <Song.*  For  lightness  of  touch 
and  aerial  grace,  ^  The  Bubble  *  will  bear  comparison  with  any  verse 
of  its  own  genre.  *•  Robin  Redbreast  *  has  many  delightful  lines ;  and 
in  <The  Fairies*  one  is  taken  into  the  realm  of  Celtic  folklore,  which 
is  Allingham's  inheritance,  where  the  Brownies,  the  Pixies,  and  the 
Leprechauns  trip  over  the  dew-spangled  meadows,  or  dance  on  the 
yellow  sands,  and  then  vanish  away  in  fantastic  mists.  Quite  differ- 
ent is  *  Lovely  Mary  Donnelly,*  which  is  a  sample  of  the  popular  songs 
that  made  him  a  favorite  in  his  own  country. 

After  his  death  at  Hampstead  in  1889,  his  body  was  cremated 
according  to  his  wish,  when  these  lines  of  his  own  were  read:  — 

«Body  to  purifjnng  flame, 
Soul  to  the  Great  Deep  whence  it  came. 
Leaving  a  song  on  earth  below, 
An  um  of  ashes  white  as  sn'^w.>* 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM 


THE  RUINED  CHAPEL 


431 


BY  THE  shore,  a  plot  of  ground 
Clips  a  ruined  chapel  round, 
Buttressed  with  a  grassy  mound; 
Where  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by 
And  bring  no  touch  of  human  sound. 

Washing  of  the  lonely  seas. 
Shaking  of  the  guardian  trees. 
Piping  of  the  salted  breeze; 

Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by 
To  the  endless  tune  of  these. 

Or  when,  as  winds  and  waters  keep 
A  hush  more  dead  than  any  sleep. 
Still  morns  to  stiller  evenings  creep, 

And  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by; 
Here  the  silence  is  most  deep. 

The  empty  ruins,  lapsed  again 

Into  Nature's  wide  domain, 

Sow  themselves  with  seed  and  grain 

As  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by; 
And  hoard  June's  sun  and  April's  rain. 

Here  fresh  funeral  tears  were  shed; 

Now  the  graves  are  also  dead; 

And  suckers  from  the  ash-tree  spread. 

While  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by, 
And  stars  move  calmly  overhead. 

From  <Day  and  Night  Songp.> 


THE  WINTER  PEAR 

IS  ALWAYS  Age  severe  ? 
Is  never  Youth  austere  ? 
Spring- fruits  are  sour  to  eat; 
Autumn's  the  mellow  time. 
Nay,  very  late  in  the  year, 

Short  day  and  frosty  rime. 
Thought,  like  a  winter  pear. 

Stone-cold  in  summer's  prime. 
May  turn  from  harsh  to  sweet. 

From  <  Ballads  and  Songs.  > 


432 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM 


SONG 


O 


SPIRIT  of  the  Summer-time! 

Bring  back  the  roses  to  the  dells; 
The  swallow  from  her  distant  clime, 
The  honey-bee  from  drowsy  cells. 


Bring  back  the  friendship  of  the  sun* 
The  gilded  evenings  calm  and  late, 

When  weary  children  homeward  run. 
And  peeping  stars  bid  lovers  wait 

Bring  back  the  singing;  and  the  scent 

Of  meadow-lands  at  dewy  prime; 
Oh,  bring  again  my  "heart's  content. 

Thou  Spirit  of  the  Summer-time! 

From  *  Day  and  Night  Songs.  ^ 

THE  BUBBLE 

SEE  the  pretty  planet! 
Floating  sphere' 
Faintest  breeze  will  fan  it 
Far  or  near; 

World  as  light  as  feather; 

Moonshine  rays. 
Rainbow  tints  together, 

As  it  plays. 

Drooping,  sinking,  failing. 

Nigh  to  earth. 
Mounting,  whirling,  sailing. 

Full  of  mirth; 

Life  there,  welling,  flowing. 

Waving  round; 
Pictures  coming,  going, 

Without  sound. 

Quick  now,  be  this  airy 

Globe  repelled! 
Never  can  the  fairy 

Star  be  held.  - 

Touched — it  in  a  twinkle 

Disappears ! 

Leaving  but  a  sprinkle. 

As  of  tears. 

From  '  Ballads  and  Songs  ' 


WILLIAM   ALLINGHAM  433 


ST.   MARGARET'S  EVE 

I  BUILT  my  castle  upon  the  seaside, 
The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 
Half  on  the  land  and  half  in  the  tide, 
Love  me  true! 

Within  was  silk,  without  was  stone, 

The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 
It  lacks  a  queen,  and  that  alone. 
Love  me  true! 

The  gray  old  harper  sang  to  me. 
The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 

*  Beware  of  the  Damsel  of  the  Sea!* 

Love  me  true! 

Saint  Margaret's  Eve  it  did  befall. 

The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 
The  tide  came  creeping  up  the  wall. 
Love  me  true! 

1  opened  my  gate;  who  there  should  stand — 

The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 
But  a  fair  lady,  with  a  cup  in  her  hand. 
Love  me  true! 

The  cup  was  gold,  and  full  of  wine, 
The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 

*  Drink,"  said  the  lady,  "and  I  will  be  thine," 

Love  me  true! 

*  Enter  my  castle,  lady  fair," 

The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 
®You  shall  be  queen  of  all  that's  there,** 
Love  me  true! 

A  gray  old  harper  sang  to  me. 
The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 

*  Beware  of  the  Damsel  of  the  Sea!* 

Love  me  true! 

In  hall  he  harpeth  many  a  year. 

The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 
And  we  will  sit  his  song  to  hear. 
Love  me  true! 


t— 28 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM 
434 

«I  love  thee  deep,  I  love  thee  true,'* 

The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O. 
«But  ah!  I  know  not  how  to  woo,* 
Love  me  true ! 

Down  dashed  the  cup,  with  a  sudden  shock, 

The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 
The  wine  like  blood  ran  over  the  rock, 
Love  me  true! 

She  said  no  word,  but  shrieked  aloud. 

The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 
And  vanished  away  from  where  she  stood, 
Love  me  true  I 

I  locked  and  barred  my  castle  door. 

The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 
Three  summer  days  I  grieved  sore, 
Love  me  true! 

For  myself  a  day,  a  night. 

The  waves  roll  so  gayly  O, 
And  two  to  moan  that  lady  bright, 
Love  me  true! 

From  <  Ballads  and  Songs.^ 

THE  FAIRIES 
(A  Child's  Song) 

Up  THE  airy  mountain, 
Down  the  rushy  glen. 
We  daren't  go  a  hunting 
For  fear  of  little  men: 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather. 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  have  made  their  home; 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow-tide  foam. 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake. 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs. 

All  night  awake. 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  King  sits; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses. 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Sliveleague  to  Rosses; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights. 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  northern  lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back. 

Between  the  night  and  morrow. 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lakes, 
On  a  bed  of  flag  leaves 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 

By  the  craggy  hillside, 

Through  the  mosses  bare. 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  them  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  feel  their  sharpest  thorns 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen. 
We  daren't  go  a  hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men: 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather. 

From  <  Ballads  and  Socgf.- 


43S 


^^6  WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM 

ROBIN   REDBREAST 
(A  Child's  Song) 

GooD-BY,  good-by,  to  Summer! 
For  Summer's  nearly  done; 
The  garden  smiling  faintly, 
Cool  breezes  in  the  sun; 
Our  Thrushes  now  are  silent, 
Our  Swallows  flown  away  — 
But  Robin's  here,  in  coat  of  brown. 
With  ruddy  breast-knot  gay. 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

Oh,  Robin,  dear! 
Robin  singing  sweetly 

In  the  falling  of  the  year. 

Bright  yellow,  red,  and  orange. 

The  leaves  come  down  in  hosts; 
The  trees  are  Indian  Princes, 

But  soon  they'll  turn  to  Ghosts ; 
The  scanty  pears  and  apples 

Hang  russet  on  the  bough. 
It's  Autumn,  Autumn,  Autumn  late, 
'Twill  soon  be  winter  now. 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

Oh,  Robin,  dear! 
And  welaway!  my  Robin, 

For  pinching  times  are  near. 

The  fireside  for  the  Cricket, 

The  wheatstack  for  the  Mouse, 
When  trembling  night-winds  whistle 

And  moan  all  round  the  house. 
The  frosty  ways  like  iron. 

The  branches  plumed  with  snow  — 
Alas!  in  Winter,  dead  and  dark. 
Where  can  poor  Robin  go  ? 
Robin,  Robin  Redbreast, 

Oh,  Robin,  dear! 
And  a  crumb  of  bread  for  Robin, 
His  little  heart  to  cheer. 

From  <  Ballads  and  Songs.' 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  ^^7 


A 


AN   EVENING 

sunset's  mounded  cloud; 
A  diamond  evening-star; 
Sad  blue  hills  afar: 
Love  in  his  shroud. 


Scarcely  a  tear  to  shed; 
Hardly  a  word  to  say; 
The  end  of  a  summer's  day; 
Sweet  Love  is  dead. 

From  <  Day  and  Night  Songs. 

DAFFODIL 

GOLD  tassel  upon  March's  bugle-horn, 
Whose  blithe  reveille  blows  from  hill  to  hill 
And  every  valley  rings  —  O  Daffodil! 
What  promise  for  the  season  newly  born  ? 
Shall  wave  on  wave  of  fiow'rs,  full  tide  of  corn, 
O'erflow  the  world,  then  fruited  Autumn  fill 
Hedgerow  and  garth  ?   Shall  tempest,  blight,  or  chill 
Turn  all  felicity  to  scathe  and  scorn  ? 

Tantarrara!  the  joyous  Book  of  Spring 

Lies  open,  writ  in  blossoms;  not  a  bird 

Of  evil  augury  is  seen  or  heard: 
Come  now,  like  Pan's  old  crew,  we'll  dance  and  sing. 
Or  Oberon's:  for  hill  and  valley  ring 

To  March's  bugle-horn, —  Earth's  blood  is  stirred. 

From  <  Flower  Pieces.* 

LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY 
(To  an  Irish  Tune) 

O  LOVELY  Mary  Donnelly,  it's  you  I  love  the  best! 
If  fifty  girls  were  round  you,  I'd  hardly  see  the  rest. 
Be  what  it  may  the  time  of  day,  the  place  be  where  it  will, 
Sweet  looks  of  Mary  Donnelly,  they  bloom  before  me  still. 

Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  that's  flowing  on  a  rock. 

How  clear  they  are,  how  dark  they  are!  and  they  give  me  many 

a  shock. 
Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine  and  wetted  with  a  shower. 
Could  ne'er  express  the  charming  lip  that  has  me  in  its  power. 


438  WILLIAM   ALLTNGHAlvr 

Her  nose  is  straight  and  handsome,  her  eyebrows  lifted  iip; 
Her  chin  is  very  neat  and  pert,  and  smooth  like  a  china  cup; 
Her  hair's  the  brag  of  Ireland,  so  weighty  and  so  fine. 
It's  rolling  down  upon  her  neck  and  gathered  in  a  twine. 

The  dance  o'  last  Whit  Monday  night  exceeded  all  before; 
No  pretty  girl  for  miles  about  was  missing  from  the  floor; 
But  Mary  kept  the  belt  of  love,  and  oh,  but  she  was  gay! 
She  danced  a  jig,  she  sung  a  song,  that  took  my  heart  away. 

When  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her  steps  were  so  complete, 
The  music  nearly  killed  itself  to  listen  to  her  feet; 
The  fiddler  moaned  his  blindness,  he  heard  her  so  much  praised. 
But    blessed    himself  he   wasn't  deaf,    when  once  her  voice   she 
raised. 

And  evermore  I'm  whistling  or  lilting  what  you  sung. 

Your  smile  is  always  in  my  heart,  your  name  beside  my  tongue; 

But   you've   as    many   sweethearts  as   you'd   count   on  both   your 

hands, 
And  for  myself  there's  not  a  thumb  or  little  finger  stands. 

Oh,  you're  the  flower  o'  womankind  in  country  or  in  town; 

The  higher  I  exalt  you,  the  lower  I'm  cast  down. 

If  some  great  lord  should  come  this  way,  and  see   your  beauty 

bright, 
And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I'd  own  it  was  but  right. 

Oh,  might  we  live  together  in  a  lofty  palace  hall. 
Where  joyful  music  rises,  and  where  scarlet  curtains  fall! 
Oh,  might  we  live  together  in  a  cottage  mean  and  small. 
With  sods  of  grass  the  only  roof,  and  mud  the  only  wall! 

O  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty's  my  distress: 
It's  far  too  beauteous  to  be  mine,  but  I'll  never  wish  it  less. 
The  proudest  place  would  fit  your  face,  and  I  am  poor  and  low; 
But  blessings  be  about  you,  dear,  wherever  you  may  go! 

From  <  Ballads  and  Songs.> 


439 


KARL  JONAS   LUDVIG  ALMQUIST 

(1793-1866) 

|lmquist,  one   of  the   most  versatile  writers  of  Sweden,  was  a 
man  of  strange  contrasts,  a  genius  as  uncertain  as  a  will-o'- 
1^^    the-wisp.      His   contemporary,    the    famous    poet    and   critic 
Atterbom,  writes:  — 

<<What  did  the  great  poets  of  past  times  possess  which  upheld  them  under 
even  the  bitterest  worldly  circumstances?  Two  things:  one  a  strong  and 
conscientious  will,  the  other  a  single  —  not  double,  much  less  manifold  —  deter- 
mination for  their  work,  oneness.  They  were  not  se  If -seekers ;  they  sought, 
they  worshiped  something  better  than  themselves.  The  aim  which  stood 
dimly  before  their  inmost  souls  was  not  the  enjoyment  of  flattered  vanity;  it 
was  a  high,  heroic  symbol  of  love  of  honor  and  love  of  country,  of  heavenly 
wisdom.  For  this  they  thought  it  worth  while  to  fight,  for  this  they  even 
thought  it  worth  while  to  suffer,  without  finding  the  suffering  in  itself  strange, 
or  calling  earth  to  witness  thereof.  .  .  .  The  writer  of  <T6mrosens  Bok* 
[The  Book  of  the  Rose]  is  one  of  these  few;  he  does  therefore  already  reign 
over  a  number  of  youthful  hearts,  and  out  of  them  will  rise  his  time  of  honor, 
a  time  when  many  of  the  celebrities  of  the  present  moment  will  have  faded 
away.>> 

Almquist  was  bom  in  Stockholm  in  1793.  When  still  a  very 
young  man  he  obtained  a  good  official  position,  but  gave  it  up  in 
1823  to  lead  a  colony  of  friends  into  the  forests  of  Varmland,  where 
they  intended  to  return  to  a  primitive  life  close  to  the  heart  of 
nature.  He  called  this  colony  a  "Man's-home  Association,"  and 
ordained  that  in  the  primeval  forest  the  members  should  live  in  turf- 
covered  huts,  wear  homespun,  eat  porridge  with  a  wooden  spoon, 
and  enact  the  ancient  freeholder.  The  experiment  was  not  successful, 
he  tired  of  the  manual  work,  and  returning  to  Stockholm,  became 
master  of  the  new  Elementary  School,  and  began  to  write  text-books 
and  educational  works.  His  publication  of  a  number  of  epics, 
dramas,  lyrics,  and  romances  made  him  suddenly  famous.  Viewed 
as  a  whole,  this  collection  is  generally  called  *The  Book  of  the 
Rose,*  but  at  times  <En  Irrande  Hind*  (A  Stray  Deer).  Of  this,  the 
two  dramas,  <  Signora  Luna  *  and  *  Ramido  Marinesco,  *  contain  some 
of  the  pearls  of  Swedish  literature.  Uneven  in  the  plan  and  execu- 
tion, they  are  yet  masterly  in  dialogue,  and  their  dramatic  and 
tragic  force  is  great.  Almquist's  imagination  showed  itself  as  indi- 
vidual as  it  is  fantastic.  Corqing  from  a  man  hitherto  known  as  the 
writer   of  text-books   and   the    advocate   of  popular   social   ideas,  the 


440  KARL  JONAS  LUDVIG  ALMQUIST 

volumes  aroused  extraordinary  interest.  The  author  revealed  himself 
as  akin  to  Novalis  and  Victor  Hugo,  with  a  power  of  language  like 
that  of  Atterbom,  and  a  richness  of  color  resembling  Tegner's.  At- 
terbom  himself  wrote  of  *  Tornrosens  Bok  *  that  it  was  a  work  whose 
"  faults  were  exceedingly  easy  to  overlook  and  whose  beauties  ex- 
ceedingly difficult  to  match.'* 

After  this  appeared  in  rapid  succession,  and  written  with  equal 
ease,  lyrical,  dramatic,  educational,  poetical,  aesthetical,  philosophical, 
moral,  and  religious  treatises,  as  well  as  lectures  and  studies  in  his- 
tory and  law;  for  Almquist  now  gave  all  his  time  to  literary  labors. 
His  novels  showed  socialistic  sympathies,  and  he  put  forth  news- 
paper articles  and  pamphlets  on  Socialism  which  aroused  considerable 
opposition.  Moreover,  he  delighted  in  contradictions.  One  day  he 
wrote  as  an  avowed  Christian,  extolling  virtue,  piety,  and  Christian 
knowledge;  the  next,  he  abrogated  religion  as  entirely  unnecessary: 
and  his  own  explanation  of  this  variability  was  merely — <*I  paint  so 
because  it  pleases  me  to  paint  so,  and  life  is  not  otherwise.*' 

In  1 85 1  was  heard  the  startling  rumor  that  he  was  accused  of 
forgery  and  charged  with  murder.  He  fled  from  Sweden  and  disap- 
peared from  the  knowledge  of  men.  Going  to  America,  he  earned 
under  a  fictitious  name  a  scanty  living,  and  became,  it  is  said,  the 
private  secretary  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  In  1866  he  found  himself 
again  under  the  ban  of  the  law,  his  papers  were  destroyed,  and  he 
escaped  with  difficulty  to  Bremen,  where  he  died. 

One  of  his  latest  works  was  his  excellent  modern  novel,  *  Det  Gar 
An'  (It's  All  Right),  a  forerunner  of  the  *  problem  novel"  of  the  day. 
It  is  an  attack  upon  conventional  marriage,  and  pictures  the  helpless- 
ness of  a  woman  in  the  hands  of  a  depraved  man.  Its  extreme 
views  called  out  violent  criticism. 

He  was  a  romanticist  through  and  through,  with  a  strong  leaning 
toward  the  French  school.  Among  the  best  of  his  tales  are  *Ara- 
minta  May,'  <Skallnora  Quarn'  (Skallnora's  Mill),  and  < Grimstahamns 
Nybygge'  ( Grimstahamn's  Settlement).  His  idyl  <Kapellet'  (The 
Chapel)  is  wonderfully  true  to  nature,  and  his  novel  *Palatset*  (The 
Palace)  is  rich  in  humor  and  true  poesy.  His  literary  fame  will 
probably  rest  on  his  romances,  which  are  the  best  of  their  kind  in 
Swedish  literature. 


KARL  JONAS  LUDVIG  ALMQUIST  44 1 


CHARACTERISTICS   OF   CATTLE 


ANY  one  with  a  taste  for  physiognomy  should  carefully  observe, 
the  features  of  the  ox  and  the  cow;  their  demeanor  and 
the  expression  of  their  eyes.  They  are  figures  which  bear 
an  extraordinary  stamp  of  respectability.  They  look  neither  joy- 
ful nor  melancholy.  They  are  seldom  evilly  disposed,  but  never 
sportive.  They  are  full  of  gravity,  and  always  seem  to  be  going 
about  their  business.  They  are  not  merely  of  great  economic 
service,  but  their  whole  persons  carry  the  look  of  it.  They  are 
the  very  models  of  earthly  carefulness. 

Nothing  is  ever  to  be  seen  more  dignified,  more  official-look- 
ing, than  the  whole  behavior  of  the  ox;  his  way  of  carrying  his 
head,  and  looking  around  him.  If  anybody  thinks  I  mean  these 
words  for  a  sarcasm,  he  is  mistaken:  no  slur  on  official  life,  or 
on  what  the  world  calls  a  man's  vocation,  is  intended.  I  hold 
them  all  in  as  much  respect  as  could  be  asked.  And  though  I 
have  an  eye  for  contours,  no  feeling  of  ridicule  is  connected  in 
my  mind  with  any  of  these.  On  the  contrary,  I  regard  the  ox 
and  the  cow  with  the  warmest  feelings  of  esteem.  I  admire  in 
them  a  naive  and  striking  picture  of  one  who  minds  his  own 
business;  who  submits  to  the  claims  of  duty,  not  using  the 
word  in  its  highest  sense;  who  in  the  world's  estimate  is  dig- 
nified, steady,  conventional,  and  middle-aged, —  that  is  to  say, 
neither  youthful  nor  stricken  in  years. 

Look  at  that  ox  which  stands  before  you,  chewing  his  cud 
and  gazing  around  him  with  such  unspeakable  thoughtfulness  — 
but  which  you  will  find,  when  you  look  more  closely  into  his 
eyes,  is  thinking  about  nothing  at  all.  Look  at  that  discreet, 
excellent  Dutch  cow,  which,  gifted  with  an  inexhaustible  udder, 
stands  quietly  and  allows  herself  to  be  milked  as  a  matter  of 
course,  while  she  gazes  into  space  with  a  most  sensible  express- 
ion. Whatever  she  does,  she  does  with  the  same  imperturbable 
calmness,  and  as  when  a  person  leaves  an  important  trust  to  his 
own  time  and  to  posterity.  If  the  worth  of  this  creature  is 
thus  great  on  the  one  side,  yet  on  the  other  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that  she  possesses  not  a  single  trait  of  grace,  not  a 
particle  of  vivacity,  and  none  of  that  quick  characteristic  retreat- 
ing from  an  object  which  indicates  an  internal  buoyancy,  an 
elastic  temperament,  such  as  we  see  in  a  bird  or  fish. 
There  is  something  very  agreeable  in  the  varied  lowing  of  cattle 


442  KARL    JONAS    LUDVIG    ALMQUIST 

when  heard  in  the  distant  country,  and  when  replied  to  by  a 
large  herd,  especially  toward  evening  and  amid  echoes.  On  the 
other  hand,  nothing  is  more  unpleasant  than  to  hear  all  at  once, 
and  just  beside  one,  the  bellowing  of  a  bull,  who  thus  authori- 
tatively announces  himself,  as  if  nobody  else  had  any  right  to 
utter  a  syllable  in  his  presence. 

A   NEW   UNDINE 
From  <The  Book  of  the  Rose> 

MISS  RuDENSKOLD  and  her  companion  sat  in  one  of  the  pews 
in  the  cheerful  and  beautiful  church  of  Normalm,  which 
is  all  that  is  left  of  the  once  famous  cloister  of  St.  Clara, 
and  still  bears  the  saint's  name.  The  sermon  was  finished,  and 
the  strong  full  tones  of  the  organ,  called  out  by  the  skillful 
hands  of  an  excellent  organist,  hovered  like  the  voices  of  unseen 
angel  choirs  in  the  high  vaults  of  the  church,  floated  down  to 
the  listeners,  and  sank  deep  into  their  hearts. 

Azouras  did  not  speak  a  single  word;  neither  did  she  sing, 
for  she  did  not  know  a  whole  hymn  through.  Nor  did  Miss 
Rudenskold  sing,  because  it  was  not  her  custom  to  sing  in 
church.  During  the  organ  solo,  however,  Miss  Rudenskold  vent- 
ured to  make  some  remarks  about  Dr.  Asplund's  sermon  which 
was  so  beautiful,  and  about  the  notices  afterward  which  were  so 
tiresome.  But  when  her  neighbor  did  not  answer,  but  sat  look- 
ing ahead  with  large,  almost  motionless  eyes,  as  people  stare 
without  looking  at  anything  in  particular,  she  changed  her  sub- 
ject. 

At  one  of  the  organ  tones  which  finished  a  cadence,  Azouras 
started,  and  blinked  quickly  with  her  eyelids,  and  a  light  sigh 
showed  that  she  came  back  to  herself  and  her  friend,  from  her 
vague  contemplative  state  of  mind.  Something  indescribable, 
very  sad,  shone  in  her  eyes,  and  made  them  almost  black;  and 
with  a  childlike  look  at  Miss  Rudenskold  she  asked,  "Tell  me 
what  that  large  painting  over  there  represents.'* 

"  The  altar-piece  ?  Don't  you  know  ?  The  altar-piece  in  Clara 
is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  we  possess.** 

"  What  is  going  on  there  ?  *  asked  Azouras. 

Miss  Rudenskold  gave  her  a  side  glance;  she  did  not  know 
that  her  neighbor  in  the  pew  was  a  girl  without  baptism,  with- 
out Christianity,  without  the  slightest  knowkdg-e  of  Wy  religiop, 


KARL  JONAS  LUDVIG  ALMQUIST  ^.- 

a  heathen  —  and  knew  less  than  a  heathen,  for  such  a  one  has 
his  teachings,  although  they  are  not  Christian.  Miss  Rudenskold 
thought  the  girl's  question  came  of  a  momentary  forgetfulness, 
and  answered,  to  remind  her:  — 

"Well,  you  see,  it  is  one  of  the  usual  subjects,  but  unusually 
well  painted,  that  is  all.  High  up  among  the  other  figures  in 
the  painting  you  will  see  the  half-reclining  figure  of  one  that  is 
dead — see  what  an  expression  the  painter  has  put  into  the  face! 
—  That  is  the  Saviour.^* 

«The  Saviour?* 

"Yes,  God's  son,  you  know;  or  God  Himself.* 

"  And  he  is  dead  ?  *  repeated  Azouras  to  herself  with  wonder- 
ing eyes.  "Yes,  I  believe  that;  it  must  be  so:  it  is  godlike  to 
die  ! » 

Miss  Rudenskold  looked  at  her  neighbor  with  wide-opened 
eyes.  "  You  must  not  misunderstand  this  subject,  *  she  said.  "  It 
is  human  to  live  and  want  to  live;  you  can  see  that,  too,  in  the 
altar-piece,  for  all  the  persons  who  are  human  beings,  like  our- 
selves, are  alive.* 

"Let  us  go  out!  I  feel  oppressed  by  fear — no,  I  will  tarry 
here  until  my  fear  passes  away.  Go,  dearest,  I  will  send  you 
word.  * 

Miss  Rudenskold  took  leave  of  her;  went  out  of  the  church 
and  over  the  churchyard  to  the  Eastern  Gate,  which  faces  Oden's 
lane.     .     .     . 

The  girl  meanwhile  stayed  inside;  came  to  a  comer  in  the 
organ  stairs;  saw  people  go  out  little  by  little;  remained  unob- 
served, and  finally  heard  the  sexton  and  the  church-keeper  go 
away.  When  the  last  door  was  closed,  Azouras  stepped  out  of 
her  hiding-place.  Shut  out  from  the  entire  world,  severed  from 
all  human  beings,  she  found  herself  the  only  occupant  of  the 
large,  light  building,  into  which  the  sun  lavishly  poured  his  gold. 

Although  she  was  entirely  ignorant  of  our  holy  church  cus- 
toms and  the  meaning  of  the  things  she  saw  around  her,  she  had 
nevertheless,  sometimes  in  the  past,  when  her  mother  was  in 
better  health,  been  present  at  the  church  service  as  a  pastime, 
and  so  remembered  one  thing  and  another.  The  persons  with 
whom  she  lived,  in  the  halls  and  corridors  of  the  opera,  hardly 
ever  went  to  God's  house;  and  generally  speaking,  church-going 
was  not  practiced  much  during  this  time.  No  wonder,  then,  that 
a  child  who  was  not  a  member  of  any  religious  body,  and  who 


444  KARL    JONAS    LUDVIG    ALMQUIST 

had  never  received  an  enlightening  word  from  any  minister, 
should  neglect  what  the  initiated  themselves  did  not  attend  to 
assiduously. 

She  walked  up  the  aisle,  and  never  had  the  sad,  strange  feel- 
ing of  utter  loneliness  taken  hold  of  her  as  it  did  now;  it  was 
coupled  with  the  apprehension  of  a  great,  overhanging  danger. 
Her  heart  beat  wildly;  she  longed  unspeakably — but  for  what? 
for  her  wild  free  forest  out  there,  where  she  ran  around  quick  as 
a  deer  ?  or  for  what  ? 

She  walked  up  toward  the  choir  and  approached  the  altar  rail- 
ing. *He  e  at  kast  —  I  remember  that  once  —  but  that  was  long 
ago,  and  it  L'tands  like  a  shadow  before  my  memory — I  saw  many 
people  kneel  here :  it  must  have  been  of  some  use  to  them  ? 
Suppose  I  did  likewise  ?  ** 

Nevertheless  she  thought  it  would  be  improper  for  her  to 
kneel  down  on  the  decorated  cushions  around  the  chancel.  She 
folded  her  hands  and  knelt  outside  of  the  choir  on  the  bare  stone 
floor.  But  what  more  was  she  to  do  or  say  now?  Of  what  use 
was  it  all  ?    Where  was  she  to  turn  ? 

She  knew  nothing.  She  looked  down  into  her  own  thoughts 
as  into  an  immense,  silent  dwelling.  Feelings  of  sorrow  and  a 
sense  of  transiency  moved  in  slow  swells,  like  shining,  breaking 
waves,  through  her  consciousness.  *Oh  —  something  to  lean  on  — 
a  help  —  where  ?  where  ?  where  ?  * 

She  looked  quietly  about  her;  she  saw  nobody.  She  was  sure 
to  meet  the  most  awful  danger  when  the  door  was  opened,  if 
help  did  not  come  first. 

She  turned  her  eyes  back  toward  the  organ,  and  in  her 
thoughts  she  besought  grace  of  the  straight,  long,  shining  pipes. 
But  all  their  mouths  were  silent  now. 

She  looked  up  to  the  pulpit;  nobody  was  standing  there.  In 
the  pews  nobody.  She  had  sent  everybody  away  from  here  and 
from  herself. 

She  turned  her  head  again  toward  the  choir.  She  remem- 
bered that  when  she  had  seen  so  many  gathered  here,  two  min- 
isters in  vestments  had  moved  about  inside  of  the  railing  and 
had  offered  the  kneeling  worshipers  something.  No  doubt  to 
help  them!  But  now — there  was  nobody  inside  there.  To  be 
sure  she  was  kneeling  here  with  folded  hands  and  praying  eyes; 
but  there  was  nobody,  nobody,  nobody  who  offered  her  the  least 
little  thing.     She  wept 


KARL  JONAS  LUDVIG  ALMQUIST  .^c 

She  looked  out  of  the  great  church  windows  to  the  clear 
noonday  sky;  her  eyes  beheld  the  delicate  azure  light  which 
spread  itself  over  everything  far,  far  away,  but  on  nothing  could 
her  eyes  rest.  There  were  no  stars  to  be  seen  now,  and  the  sun 
itself  was  hidden  by  the  window  post,  although  its  mild  golden 
light  flooded  the  world. 

She  looked  away  again,  and  her  eyes  sank  to  the  ground. 
Her  knees  were  resting  on  a  tombstone,  and  she  saw  many  of 
the  same  kind  about  her.  She  read  the  names  engraven  on  the 
Btones;  they  were  all  Swedish,  correct  and  well-known.  *Oh,* 
she  said 'to  herself  with  a  sigh,  "I  have  not  a  name  like  others! 
My  names  have  been  many,  borrowed, — and  oh,  often  changed. 
I  did  not  get  one  to  be  my  very  own!  If  only  I  had  one  like 
other  people!  Nobody  has  written  me  down  in  a  book  as  I  have 
heard  it  said  others  are  written  down.  Nobody  asks  about  me. 
I  have  nothing  to  do  with  anybody!  Poor  Azouras,'*  she  whis-. 
pered  low  to  herself.     She  wept  much. 

There  was  no  one  else  who  said  *  poor  Azouras  Tintomara !  * 
but  it  was  as  if  an  inner,  higher,  invisible  being  felt  sorry  for 
the  outer,  bodily,  visible  being,  both  one  and  the  same  person 
in  her.     She  wept  bitterly  over  herself. 

"God  is  dead,'*  she  thought,  and  looked  up  at  the  large  altar- 
piece  again.  "But  I  am  a  human  being;  I  must  live."  And 
she  wept  more  heartily,  more  bitterly.     .     .     . 

The  afternoon  passed,  and  the  hour  for  vespers  struck.  The 
bells  in  the  tower  began  to  lift  their  solemn  voices,  and  keys 
rattled  in  the  lock.  Then  the  heathen  girl  sprang  up,  and,  much 
like  a  thin  vanishing  mist,  disappeared  from  the  altar.  She  hid 
in  her  corner  again.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  for- 
ward, and  had  taken  liberties  in  the  choir  of  the  church  to 
which  she  had  no  right;  and  that  in  the  congregation  coming  in 
now,  she  saw  persons  who  had  a  right  to  everything. 

Nevertheless,  when  the  harmonious  tones  of  the  organ  began 
to  mix  with  the  fragrant  summer  air  in  the  church,  Azouras 
stood  radiant,  and  she  felt  quickly  how  the  weight  lifted  from 
her  breast.  Was  it  because  of  the  tears  she  had  shed  ?  Or  did 
an  unknown  helper  at  this  moment  scatter  the  fear  in  her  heart  ? 

She  felt  no  more  that  it  would  be  dangerous  to  leave  the 
church;  she  stole  away,  before  vespers  were  over,  came  out  into 
the  churchyard  and  turned  off  to  the  northern  gate. 


446  JOHANNA  AMBROSIUS 


GOD'S    WAR 


HIS  mighty  weapon  drawing, 
God  smites  the  world  he  loves, 
Thus,  worthy  of  him  growing. 
She  his  reflection  proves. 
God's  war  like  lightning  striking, 

The  heart's  deep  core  lays  bare, 
Which  fair  grows  to  his  liking 
Who  is  supremely  fair. 

Escapes  no  weakness  shame. 

No  hid,  ignoble  feeling; 

But  when  his  thunder  pealing 
Enkindles  life's  deep  flame. 
And  water  clear  upwelleth. 

Flowing  unto  its  goal, 
God's  grand  cross  standing,  telleth 

His  truth  unto  the  soul. 

Sing,  God's  war,  earth  that  shakes  I 
Sing,  sing  the  peace  he  makes! 


JOHANNA  AMBROSIUS 
(1854-) 

jEFORE  the  year  1895  the  name  of  the  German  peasant,  Johanna 
Ambrosius,  was  hardly  known,  even  within  her  own  country. 
Now  her  melodious  verse  has  made  her  one  of  the  most 
popular  writers  in  Germany.  Her  genius  found  its  way  from  the 
humble  farm  in  Eastern  Prussia,  where  she  worked  in  the  field  beside 
her  husband,  to  the  very  heart  of  the  great  literary  circles.  She  was 
born  in  Lengwethen,  a  parish  village  in  Eastern  Prussia,  on  the  3d  of 
August,  1854.  She  received  only  the  commonest  education,  and  every 
day  was  filled  with  the  coarsest  toil.  But  her  mind  and  soul  were 
uplifted  by  the  gift  of  poetry,  to  which  she  gave  voice  in  her  rare 
moments  of  leisure.  A  delicate,  middle-aged  woman,  whose  simplicity 
is  undisturbed  by  the  lavish  praises  of  literary  men,  she  leads  the 
most  unpretending  of  lives.  Her  work  became  known  by  the  merest 
chance.  She  sent  a  poem  to  a  German  weekly,  where  it  attracted  the 
attention  of  a  Viennese  gentleman,  Dr.  Schrattenthal,  who  collecteo 
her  verses  and  sent  the  little  volume  into  the  world  with  a  preface 
by  himself.     This  work  has  already  gone  through  twenty-six  editions. 


JOHANNA  AMBROSIUS  4^7 

The  short  sketch  cited,  written  some  years  ago,  is  the  only  prose  of 
hers  that  has  been  published. 

The  distinguishing  characteristics  of  the  poetry  of  this  singularly 
gifted  woman  are  the  deep,  almost  painfully  intense  earnestness  per- 
vading its  every  line,  the  fine  sense  of  harmony  and  rhythmic  felicity 
attending  the  comparatively  few  attempts  she  has  thus  far  made,  and 
her  tender  touch  when  dwelling  upon  themes  of  the  heart  and  home. 
One  cannot  predict  what  her  success  will  be  when  she  attempts  more 
ambitious  flights,  but  thus  far  she  seems  to  have  probed  the  aesthetic 
heart  of  Germany  to  its  centre. 


A  PEASANT'S  THOUGHTS 

THE  first  snow,  in  large  and  thick  flakes,  fell  gently  and  silently 
on  the  barren  branches  of  the  ancient  pear-tree,  standing 
like  a  sentinel  at  my  house  door.  The  first  snow  of  the 
year  speaks  both  of  joy  and  sadness.  It  is  so  comfortable  to  sit 
in  a  warm  room  and  watch  the  falling  flakes,  eternally  pure  and 
lovely.  There  are  neither  flowers  nor  birds  about,  to  make  you 
see  and  hear  the  beautiful  great  world.  Now  the  busy  peasant 
has  time  to  read  the  stories  in  his  calendar.  And  I,  too,  stopped 
my  spinning-wheel,  the  holy  Christ-child's  gift  on  my  thirteenth 
birthday,  to  fold  my  hands  and  to  look  through  the  calendar  of 
my  thoughts. 

I  did  not  hear  a  knock  at  the  door,  but  a  little  man  came  in 
with  a  cordial  '*  Good  morning,  little  sister ! ''  I  knew  him  well 
enough,  though  we  were  not  acquaintances.  Half  familiar,  half 
strange,  this  little  time-worn  figfure  looked.  His  queer  face 
seemed  stamped  out  of  rubber,  the  upper  part  sad,  the  lower 
full  of  laughing  wrinkles.  But  his  address  surprised  me,  for  we 
were  not  in  the  least  related.  I  shook  his  homy  hand,  respond- 
ing, "Hearty  thanks,  little  brother.*  "I  call  this  good  luck," 
began  little  brother:  *a  room  freshly  scoured,  apples  roasting  in 
the  chimney,  half  a  cold  duck  in  the  cupboard ;  and  you  all  alone 
with  cat  and  clock.  It  is  easier  talking  when  there  are  two,  for 
the  third  is  always  in  the  way." 

The  old  man  amused  me  immensely.  I  sat  down  On  the 
bench  beside  him  and  asked  after  his  wife  and  family.  "Thanks, 
thanks,"  he  nodded,  "all  well  and  happy  except  our  nestling 
Ille.  She  leaves  home  to-morrow,  to  eat  her  bread  as  a  dress- 
maker in    B . "  —  "  And  the  other  children,  where  are  they  ? " 


.  .g  JOHANNA  AMBROSIUS 

"  Flown  away,  long  ago !  Do  you  suppose,  little  sister,  that  1 
want  to  keep  all  fifteen  at  home  like  so  many  cabbages  in 
a  single  bed  ?  '^  Fifteen  children !  Almost  triumphantly,  little 
brother  watched  me.  I  owned  almost  as  many  brothers  and 
sisters  myself,  and  fifteen  children  were  no  marvel  to  me.  So  I 
asked  if  he  were  a  grandfather  too. 

**Of  course,*  he  answered  gravely.  **  But  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  how  I  came  by  fifteen  children.  You  know  how  we  peasant 
folk  give  house  and  land  to  the  eldest  son,  and  only  a  few 
coppers  to  the  youngest  children.  A  bad  custom,  that  leads  to 
quarrels,  and  ends  sometimes  in  murder.  Fathers  and  mothers 
can't  bring  themselves  to  part  with  the  property,  and  so  they 
live  with  the  eldest  son,  who  doles  out  food  and  shelter,  and  gets 
the  farm  in  the  end.  So,  in  time,  a  family  has  some  rich  mem- 
bers and  more  paupers.  Now,  we'd  better  sell  the  land  and  let 
the  children  share  alike;  but  then  that  way  breaks  estates  too, 
I  was  a  younger  child,  and  I  received  four  hundred  thalers;  —  a 
large  sum  forty  years  ago.  I  didn't  know  anything  but  field 
work.  The  saying  that  *The  peasant  must  be  kept  stupid  or  he 
will  not  obey^  was  still  printed  in  all  the  books.  So  I  had  to 
look  about  for  a  family  where  a  son  was  needed.  One  day,  with 
my  four  hundred  thalers  in  my  pocket,  I  went  to  a  farm  where 
there  was  an  unmarried  daughter.  When  you  go  a-courting 
among  us,  you  pretend  to  mean  to  buy  a  horse.  That's  the 
fashion.  With  us,  a  lie  doesn't  wear  French  rouge.  The  parents 
of  Marianne  (that  was  her  name)  made  me  welcome.  Brown 
Bess  was  brought  from  the  stable,  and  her  neck,  legs,  and  teeth 
examined.  I  showed  my  willingness  to  buy  her,  which  meant  as 
much  as  to  say,  *■  Your  daughter  pleases  me.  *  As  proud  as  you 
please,  I  walked  through  the  buildings.  Everything  in  plenty,  all 
right,  not  a  nail  wanting  on  the  harrow,  nor  a  cord  missing  from 
the  harness.  How  I  strutted!  I  saw  myself  master,  and  I  was 
tickled  to  death  to  be  as  rich  as  my  brother. 

*But  I  reckoned  without  my  host.  On  tiptoe  I  stole  into  the 
kitchen,  where  my  sweetheart  was  frying  ham  and  eggs,  I 
thought  I  might  snatch  a  kiss.  Above  the  noise  of  the  sizzling 
frying-pan  and  the  crackling  wood,  I  plainly  heard  the  voice  of 
my — well,  let  us  say  it — bride,  weeping  and  complaining  to  an 
old  house  servant:  *It's  a  shame  and  a  sin  to  enter  matrimony 
with  a  lie.  I  can't  wed  this  Michael:  not  because  he  is  ugly; 
that  doesn't  matter  in  a  man,  but  he  comes  too  late!     My  heart 


JOHANNA  AMBROSIUS  44^ 

belongs  to  poor  Joseph,  the  woodcutter,  and  I'd  sooner  be  turned 
out  of  doors  than  to  make  a  false  promise.  Money  blinds  my 
mother's  eyes  I*  Don't  be  surprised,  little  sister,  that  I  remember 
these  words  so  well.  A  son  doesn't  forget  his  father's  blessing, 
nor  a  prisoner  his  sentence.  This  was  my  sentence  to  poverty 
and  single -blessedness.  I  sent  word  to  Marianne  that  she  should 
be  happy  —  and  so  she  was. 

*^  But  now  to  my  own  story.  I  worked  six  years  as  farm  hand 
for  my  rich  brother,  and  then  love  overtook  me.  The  little 
housemaid  caught  me  in  the  net  of  her  golden  locks.  What  a 
fuss  it  made  in  our  family!  A  peasant's  pride  is  as  stiff  as  that 
of  your  *Vous*  and  ^Zus.*  My  g^rl  had  only  a  pair  of  willing 
hands  and  a  good  heart  to  give  to  an  ugly,  pock-marked  being 
like  me.  My  mother  (God  grant  her  peace!)  caused  her  many  a 
tear,  and  when  I  brought  home  my  Lotte  she  wouldn't  keep  the 
peace  until  at  last  she  found  out  that  happiness  depends  on  kind- 
ness more  than  on  money.  On  the  patch  of  land  that  I  bought, 
my  wife  and  I  lived  as  happily  as  people  live  when  there's  love 
in  the  house  and  a  bit  of  bread  to  spare.  We  worked  hard  and 
spent  little.  A  long,  scoured  table,  a  wooden  bench  or  so,  a 
chest  or  two  of  coarse  linen,  and  a  few  pots  and  pans — that  was 
our  furniture.  The  walls  had  never  tasted  whitewash,  but  Lotte 
kept  them  scoured.  She  went  to  church  barefoot,  and  put  on 
her  shoes  at  the  door.  Good  things  such  as  coffee  and  plums, 
that  the  poorest  hut  has  now-a-days,  we  never  saw.  We  didn't 
save  much,  for  crops  sold  cheap.  But  I  didn't  speculate,  nor 
squeeze  money  from  the  sweat  of  the  poor.  In  time  five  pretty 
little  chatterboxes  arrived,  all  flaxen-haired  girls  with  blue  eyes, 
or  brown.  I  was  satisfied  with  girls,  but  the  mother  hankered 
after  a  boy.  That's  a  poor  father  that  prefers  a  son  to  a 
daughter.  A  man  ought  to  take  boys  and  girls  alike,  just  as 
God  sends  them.  I  was  glad  enough  to  work  for  my  girls,  and 
I  didn't  worry  about  their  future,  nor  build  castles  in  the  air  for 
them  to  live  in.  After  fifteen  years  the  boy  arrived,  but  he  took 
himself  quickly  out  of  the  world  and  coaxed  his  mother  away 
with  him.* 

Little  brother  was  silent,  and  bowed  his  snow-white  head.  My 
heart  felt  as  if  the  dead  wife  flitted  through  the  room  and  gently 
touched  the  old  fellow's  thin  locks.  I  saw  him  kneeling  at  her 
death-bed,  heard  the  little  girls  sobbing,  and  waited  in  silence  till 
he  drew  himself  up,  sighing  deeply:  — 

I — 20 


^eo  JOHANNA  AMBROSIUS 

"My  Lotte  died;  she  left  me  alone.  What  didn't  I  promise 
the  dear  Lord  in  those  black  hours!  My  life,  my  savings,  yea,  all 
my  children  if  He  would  but  leave  her  to  me.  In  vain.  *My 
thoughts  are  not  thy  thoughts,  saith  the  Lord,  and  My  ways 
are  not  thy  ways.*  It  was  night  in  my  soul.  I  cried  over  my 
children,  and  I  only  half  did  my  work.  At  night  I  tumbled  into 
bed  tearless  and  prayerless.  Oh,  sad  time !  God  vainly  knocked  at 
my  heart's  door  until  the  children  fell  ill.  Oh,  what  would  become 
of  me  if  these  flowers  were  gathered  ?  What  wealth  these  rosy 
mouths  meant  to  me,  how  gladly  would  they  smile  away  my  sor- 
row! I  had  set  myself  up  above  the  Lord.  But  by  my  children's 
bedside  I  prayed  for  grace.  They  all  recovered.  I  took  my 
motherless  brood  to  God's  temple  to  thank  Him  there.  Church- 
going  won't  bring  salvation,  but  staying  away  from  church  makes 
a  man  stupid  and  coarse. 

"  But  I  am  forgetting,  little  sister.  I  started  to  tell  you 
about  my  fifteen  children.  You  see  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I 
had  to  find  a  mother  for  the  chicks.  I  wouldn't  chain  a  young 
thing  to  my  bonds,  even  if  she  understood  housekeeping.  I  held 
to  the  saying,  *  Equal  wealth,  equal  birth,  equal  years  make  a 
good  match.*  When  an  old  widower  courts  a  young  girl  he  looks 
at  her  faults  with  a  hundred  eyes  when  he  measures  her  with 
his  first  wife.  But  a  home  without  a  wife  is  like  spring  with- 
out blossoms.  So,  thinking  this  way,  I  chose  a  widow  with  ten 
children.  ** 

Twirling  his  thumbs,  little  brother  smiled  gayly  as  he  looked 
at  me.  "  Five  and  ten  make  fifteen,  I  thought,  and  when  fifteen 
prayers  rise  to  heaven,  the  Lord  must  hear.  My  two  eldest 
stepsons  entered  military  service.  We  wouldn't  spend  all  our 
money  on  the  boys  and  then  console  our  poor  girls  with  a  hus- 
band. I  put  three  sons  to  trades.  But  my  girls  were  my  pride. 
They  learned  every  kind  of  work.  When  they  could  cook,  wash, 
and  spin,  we  sent  them  into  good  households  to  learn  more. 
Two  married  young.  Some  of  the  rest  are  seamstresses  and 
housekeepers.  One  is  a  secretary,  and  our  golden-haired  Miez  is 
lady's-maid  to  the  Countess  H .  Both  these  girls  are  be- 
trothed. Miez  is  the  brightest,  and  she  managed  to  learn,  even 
at  the  village  school.  So  much  is  written  about  education  nowa- 
days, *  (little  brother  drew  himself  up  proudly  as  he  added,  *  I 
take  a  newspaper,**)  "but  the  real  education  is  to  keep  children 
at  work  and   make  them    unselfish.     They   must   love   their  work. 


JOHANNA   AMBROSIUS  451 

Work  and  pray,  these  were  my  rules,  and  thank  Heaven!  all  my 
children  are  good  and  industrious. 

"Just  think,  last  summer  my  dear  girls  sent  me  a  suit  of  fine 
city  clothes  and  money  to  go  a  journey,  begging  their  old  father 
to  make  them  a  visit.  Oh,  how  pretty  they  looked  when  they 
showed  me  round  the  city  in  spite  of  my  homespun,  for  I 
couldn't  bring  myself  to  wear  the  fine  clothes,  after  all.  The 
best  dressed  one  was  our  little  lady's-maid,  who  had  a  gold  watch 
in  her  belt.  So  I  said :  *  Listen,  child,  that  is  not  fit  for  you.  * 
But  she  only  laughed.  *  Indeed  it  is,  little  father.  If  my  gra- 
cious lady  makes  me  a  present,  I'm  not  likely  to  be  mistaken  for 
her  on  that  account.* — *And  girls,  are  you  contented  to  be  in 
service  ?  *  —  ^  Certainly,  father :  unless  there  are  both  masters  and 
servants  the  world  would  go  out  of  its  grooves.  My  good 
Countess  makes  service  so  light,  that  we  love  and  serve  her. 
Yes,  little  father,*  added  Miez,  *  my  gracious  mistress  chose  Gus- 
tav  for  me,  and  is  going  to  pay  for  the  wedding  and  start  us  in 
housekeeping  —  God  bless  her !  *  Now  see  what  good  such  a 
woman  does.  If  people  would  but  learn  that  it  takes  wits  to 
command  as  well  as  to  obey,  they  would  get  along  well  enough 
in  these  new  times  of  equality.  Thank  heaven!  we  country  folk 
shan't  be  ruined  by  idleness.  When  I  saw  my  thatched  roof 
again,  among  the  fir-trees,  I  felt  as  solemn  as  if  I  were  going  to 
prayers.  The  blue  smoke  looked  like  incense.  I  folded  my 
hands,  I  thanked  God." 

Little   brother   arose,  his   eyes  bright   with   tears.     He  cast  a 

wistful   look  toward   the   apples  in   the   chimney :    "  My  old   wife, 

little    sister  ? "  —  "  Certainly,  take   them   all,  little   brother,  you   are 

heartily  welcome  to  them.**  —  "We  are  like  children,  my  wife  and 

I,    we   carry   tidbits  to  each   other,  now   that   our  birds  have   all 

flown   away.  **  — "  That   is  right,  old  boy,  and   God  keep  thee !  **  I 

said.      From   the   threshold   the   words   echoed   back,    "God   keep 

thee!** 

Translation  of  Miss  H.  Geist. 


STRUGGLE  AND   PEACE 

A  QUARTER-CENTURY  warfare  wokt 
No  sabre  clash  nor  powder  smoke, 
No  triumph  song  nor  battle  cry; 
Their  shields  no  templared  knights  stood  by. 


45i  JOHANNA  AMfeROSltJS 

Though  fought  were  many  battles  hot. 
Of  any  fight  the  world  knew  not 
How  great  the  perils  often  grew  — 
God  only  knew. 

Within  my  deepest  soul-depths  torn, 
In  hands  and  feet  wounds  bleeding  borne. 
Trodden  beneath  the  chargers'  tread. 
How  I  endured,  felt,  suffered,  bled, 
How  wept  and  groaned  I  in  my  woe. 
When  scoffed  the  malice-breathing  foe, 
How  pierced  his  scorn  my  spirit  through, 
God  only  knew. 

The  evening  nears;  cool  zephyrs  blow; 
The  struggle  wild  doth  weaker  grow; 
The  air  with  scarce  a  sigh  is  filled 
From  the  pale  mouth;  the  blood  is  stilled. 
Quieted  now  my  bitter  pain; 
A  faint  star  lights  the  heavenly  plain; 
Peace  cometh  after  want  and  woe  — 
My  God  doth  know. 


DO   THOU   LOVE.   TOO! 

THE  waves  they  whisper 
In  Luna's  glance, 
Entrancing  music 

For  the  nixies'  dance. 
They  beckon,  smiling. 
And  wavewise  woo. 
While  softly  plashing:  — 
<*  Do  thovi  love,  too !  ** 

In  blossoming  lindens 

Doves  fondly  rear 
Their  tender  fledglings 

From  year  to  year. 
With  never  a  pausing, 

They  bill  and  coo, 
And  twitter  gently: — 

**Do  thou  love,  tool* 


EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS  453 

INVITATION 

How  long  wilt  stand  outside  and  cower? 
Come  straight  within,  beloved  guest. 
The  winds  are  fierce  this  wintry  hour: 
Come,  stay  awhile  with  me  and  rest. 
You  wander  begging  shelter  vainly 

A  weary  time  from  door  to  door; 
I  see  what  you  have  suffered  plainly: 

Come,  rest  with  me  and  stray  no  more! 

And  nestle  by  me,  trusting-hearted; 

Lay  in  my  loving  hands  your  head: 
Then  back  shall  come  your  peace  departed, 

Through  the  world's  baseness  long  since  fled; 
And  deep  from  out  your  heart  upspringing. 

Love's  downy  wings  will  soar  to  view, 
The  darling  smiles  like  magic  bringing 

Around  your  gloomy  lips  anew. 

Come,  rest:   myself  will  here  detain  you, 

So  long  as  pulse  of  mine  shall  beat; 
Nor  shall  my  heart  grow  cold  and  pain  you. 

Till  carried  to  your  last  retreat. 
You  gaze  at  me  in  doubting  fashion. 

Before  the  offered  rapture  dumb; 
Tears  and  still  tears  your  sole  expression: 

Bedew  my  bosom  with  them  —  come! 


EDMONDO   DE  AMICIS 

(1846-) 

|n  1869,  'Vita  Militare*  (Military  Life),  a  collection  of  short 
stories,  was  perhaps  the  most  popular  Italian  volume  of  the 
year.  Read  alike  in  court  and  cottage,  it  was  every-where 
discussed  and  enthusiastically  praised.  Its  prime  quality  was  that 
quivering  sympathy  which  insures  some  success  to  any  imaginative 
work,  however  crudely  written.  But  these  sketches  of  all  the  grim 
and  amusing  phases  of  Italian  soldier  life  are  drawn  with  an  exqui- 
site precision.  The  reader  feels  the  breathless  discouragement  of 
the  tired  soldiers  when  new  dusty  vistas  are  revealed  by  a  sudden 
tvirn  in  the  road  (*A  Midsummer  March*);  understands  the  strong 


454 


EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS 


silent  love  between  officer  and  orderly,  suppressed  by  military  eti- 
quette (<The  Orderly >);  smiles  with  the  soldiers  at  the  pretty  runa- 
way boy,  idol  of  the  regiment  (<The  Son  of  the  Regiment');  pities 
the  humiliations  of  the  conscript  novice  (<The  Conscript*);  thrills 
with  the  proud  sorrow  of  the  old  man  whose  son's  colonel  tells  the 
story  of  his  heroic  death  ( <Dead  on  the  Field  of  Battle  > ).  «  When  I 
had  finished  reading  it,»  said  an  Italian  workman,  «I  would  gladly 
have  pressed  the  hand  of  the  first  soldier  whom  I  happened  to 
meet.»  The  author  was  only  twenty-three,  and  has  since  given  the 
world  many  delightful  volumes,  but  nothing  finer. 

These  sketches  were  founded  upon  personal  knowledge,  for  De 
Amicis  began  life  as  a  soldier.  After  his  early  education  at  Coni 
and  Turin,  he  entered  the  military  school  at  Modena,  from  which  he 
was  sent  out  as  sub-lieutenant  in  the  third  regiment  of  the  line.  He 
saw  active  service  in  various  expeditions  against  Sicilian  brigands; 
and   in   the   war   with   Austria  he   fought  at  the  battle   of  Custozza. 

His  literary  power  seems  to  have  been  early 
manifest;  for  in  1867  he  became  manager 
of  a  newspaper,  L'ltalia  Militare,  at  Flor- 
ence; and  in  1871,  yielding  to  his  friends' 
persuasions,  he  settled  down  to  authorship 
at  Turin.  His  second  book  was  the  <Ricordi,> 
memorials  dedicated  to  the  youth  of  Italy, 
of  national  events  which  had  come  within 
his  experience.  Half  a  dozen  later  stories 
published  together  were  also  very  popular, 
especially  <  Gli  Amici  di  Collegio  >  (College 
Friends),  *  Fortezza,*  and  '  La  Casa  Paterna  * 
(The  Paternal  Home).  He  has  written 
some  graceful  verse  as  well. 
But  De  Amicis  soon  craved  the  stimulus  of  novel  environments, 
of  differing  personalities;  and  he  set  out  upon  the  travels  which  he 
has  so  delightfully  recounted.  This  ardent  Italian  longed  for  the 
repose  of  <<a  gray  sky,>>  a  crific  tells  us.  He  went  first  to  Holland, 
and  experienced  a  joyous  satisfaction  in  the  careful  art  of  that  trim 
little  land.  Later,  a  visit  to  North  Africa  in  the  suite  of  the  Italian 
ambassador  prompted  a  brilliant  volume,  *  Morocco,  *  "  which  glitters 
and  flashes  like  a  Damascus  blade.**  Among  his  other  well-known 
books,  descriptive  of  other  trips,  are  <  Holland  and  Its  People,  * 
*  Spain,*  <  London,*  <  Paris,*  and  <  Constantinople, *  which,  translated 
into  many  languages,  have  been  widely  read. 

That  unfortunate  though  not  uncommon  traveler  who  finds  ennui 
everjrwhere  must  envy  De  Amicis  his  inexhaustible  enthusiasm,  his 
power  of   epicurean  enjoyment  in  the  color  and   glory  of  every  land. 


Edmondo   de  Amicis 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS  ^ge 

His  is  a  curiously  optimistic  nature.  Always  perceiving  the  beautiful 
and  picturesque  in  art  and  nature,  he  treats  other  aspects  hopefully, 
and  ignores  them  when  he  may.  He  catches  what  is  characteristic 
in  every  nation  as  inevitably  as  he  catches  the  physiognomy  of  a 
land  with  its  skies  and  its  waters,  its  flowers  and  its  atmosphere. 
His  is  a  realism  transfigured  by  poetic  imagination,  which  divines 
essential  things  and  places  them  in  high  relief. 

Very  early  in  life  De  Amicis  announced  his  love  and  admiration 
of  Manzoni,  of  whom  he  called  himself  a  disciple.  But  his  is  a  very 
different  mind.  This  Italian,  born  at  Oneglia  of  Genoese  parents, 
has  inherited  the  emotional  nature  of  his  country.  He  sees  every- 
thing with  feeling,  penetrating  below  the  surface  with  sympathetic 
insight.  Italy  gives  him  his  sensuous  zest  in  life.  But  from  France, 
through  his  love  of  her  vigor  and  grace,  his  cordial  admiration  of 
her  literature,  he  has  gained  a  refining  and  strengthening  influence. 
She  has  taught  him  that  direct  diction,  that  choice  simplicity,  which 
forsakes  the  stilted  Italian  of  literary  tradition  for  a  style  far 
simpler,  stronger,  and  more  natural. 


All  selections  used  by  permission  of  G.  1'.  Putnam  s  Sons 
THE    LIGHT 
From  <  Constantinople 

AND  first  of  all,  the  light!  One  of  my  dearest  delights  at  Con- 
stantinople was  to  see  the  sun  rise  and  set,  standing  upon 
the  bridge  of  the  Sultana  Valide.  At  dawn,  in  autumn,  the 
Golden  Horn  is  almost  always  covered  by  a  light  fog,  behind 
which  the  city  is  seen  vaguely,  like  those  gauze  curtains  that 
descend  upon  the  stage  to  conceal  the  preparations  for  a  scenic 
spectacle.  Scutari  is  quite  hidden;  nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  the 
dark  uncertain  outline  of  her  hills.  The  bridge  and  the  shores 
are  deserted,  Constantinople  sleeps;  the  solitude  and  silence  render 
the  spectacle  more  solemn.  The  sky  begins  to  grow  golden 
behind  the  hills  of  Scutari.  Upon  that  luminous  strip  are  drawn, 
one  by  one,  black  and  clear,  the  tops  of  the  cypress  trees  in  the 
vast  cemetery,  like  an  army  of  giants  ranged  upon  the  heights; 
and  from  one  cape  of  the  Golden  Horn  to  the  other  there  shines 
a  tremulous  light,  faint  as  the  first  murmur  of  the  awakening 
city.  Then  behind  the  cypresses  of  the  Asiatic  shore  comes  forth 
an  eye  of  fire,  and  suddenly  the  white  tops  of  the  four  minarets 
of  Saint  Sophia   are   tinted   with   deep   rose.     In   a   few    minutes. 


456 


EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS 


from  hill  to  hill,  from  mosque  to  mosque,  down  to  the  end  of  the 
Golden  Horn,  all  the  minarets,  one  after  the  other,  turn  rose 
color;  all  the  domes,  one  by  one,  are  silvered,  the  flush  descends 
from  terrace  to  terrace,  the  tremulous  light  spreads,  the  great 
veil  melts,  and  all  Stamboul  appears,  rosy  and  resplendent  upon 
her  heights,  blue  and  violet  along  the  shores,  fresh  and  young,  as 
if  just  risen  from  the  waters. 

As  the  sun  rises,  the  delicacy  of  the  first  tints  vanishes  in  an 
immense  illumination,  and  everything  remains  bathed  in  white 
light  until  toward  evening.  Then  the  divine  spectacle  begins 
again.  The  air  is  so  limpid  that  from  Galata  one  can  see  clearly 
every  distant  tree,  as  far  as  Kadi-Kioi.  The  whole  of  the 
immense  profile  of  Stamboul  stands  out  against  the  sky  with  such 
a  clearness  of  line  and  rigor  of  color,  that  every  minaret,  obelisk, 
and  cypress-tree  can  be  counted,  one  by  one,  from  Seraglio  Point 
to  the  cemetery  of  Eyub.  The  Golden  Horn  and  the  Bosphorus 
assume  a  wonderful  ultramarine  color;  the  heavens,  the  color  of 
amethyst  in  the  East,  are  afire  behind  Stamboul,  tinting  the  hori- 
zon with  infinite  lights  of  rose  and  carbuncle,  that  make  one 
think  of  the  first  day  of  the  creation;  Stamboul  darkens,  Galata 
becomes  golden,  and  Scutari,  struck  by  the  last  rays  of  the  set- 
ting sun,  with  every  pane  of  glass  giving  back  the  glow,  looks 
like  a  city  on  fire. 

And  this  is  the  moment  to  contemplate  Constantinople.  There 
is  one  rapid  succession  of  the  softest  tints,  pallid  gold,  rose  and 
lilac,  which  quiver  and  float  over  the  sides  of  the  hills  and  the 
water,  every  moment  giving  and  taking  away  the  prize  of  beauty 
from  each  part  of  the  city,  and  revealing  a  thousand  modest 
graces  of  the  landscape  that  have  not  dared  to  show  themselves 
in  the  full  light.  Great  melancholy  suburbs  are  lost  in  the 
shadow  of  the  valleys;  little  purple  cities  smile  upon  the  heights; 
villages  faint  as  if  about  to  die;  others  die  at  once  like  extin- 
guished flames;  others,  that  seemed  already  dead,  revive,  and 
glow,  and  quiver  yet  a  moment  longer  under  the  last  ray  of  the 
sun.  Then  there  is  nothing  left  but  two  resplendent  points  upon 
the  Asiatic  shore, —  the  summit  of  Mount  Bulgurlu,  and  the 
extremity  of  the  cape  that  guards  the  entrance  to  the  Propontis; 
they  are  at  first  two  golden  crowns,  then  two  purple  caps,  then 
two  rubies;  then  all  Constantinople  is  in  shadow,  and  ten  thou- 
sand voices  from  ten  thousand  minarets  announce  the  close  of 
the  day. 


EpMONDO   DE  AMICIS  4^7 

RESEMBLANCES 
From  <  Constantinople  * 

IN  THE  first  days,  fresh  as  I  was  from  the  penisal  of  Oriental 
hterature,  I  saw  everywhere  the  famous  personages  of  history 
and  legend,  and  the  figures  that  recalled  them  resembled 
sometimes  so  faithfully  those  that  were  fixed  in  my  imagination, 
that  I  was  constrained  to  stop  and  look  at  them.  How  many 
times  have  I  seized  my  friend  by  the  arm,  and  pointing  to  a 
person  passing  by,  have  exclaimed :  *^  It  is  he,  cospetto!  do  you 
not  recognize  him  ?  ^*  In  the  square  of  the  Sultana  Valide,  I  fre- 
quently saw  the  gigantic  Turk  who  threw  down  millstones  from 
the  walls  of  Nicaea  on  the  heads  of  the  soldiers  of  Baglione;  I 
saw  in  front  of  a  mosque  Umm  Djemil,  that  old  ivixy  that  sowed 
brambles  and  nettles  before  Mahomet's  house;  I  met  in  the  book 
bazaar,  with  a  volume  under  his  arm,  Djemaleddin,  the  learned 
man  of  Broussa,  who  knew  the  whole  of  the  Arab  dictionary  by 
heart;  I  passed  quite  close  to  the  side  of  Ayesha,  the  favorite 
wife  of  the  Prophet,  and  she  fixed  upon  my  face  her  eyes,  brill- 
iant and  humid,  like  the  reflection  of  stars  in  a  well;  I  have 
recognized,  in  the  At-Meidan,  the  famous  beauty  of  that  poor 
Greek  woman  killed  by  a  cannon  ball  at  the  base  of  the  serpent- 
ine column;  I  have  been  face  to  face,  in  the  Fanar,  with  Kara- 
Abderrahman,  the  handsome  young  Turk  of  the  time  of  Orkhan; 
I  have  seen  Coswa,  the  she-camel  of  the  Prophet;  I  have  en- 
countered Kara-bulut,  Selim's  black  steed;  I  have  met  the  poor 
poet  Fignahi,  condemned  to  go  about  Stamboul  tied  to  an  ass 
for  having  pierced  with  an  insolent  distich  the  Grand  Vizier  of 
Ibrahim;  I  have  been  in  the  same  cafe  with  Soliman  the  Big, 
the  monstrous  admiral,  whom  four  robust  slaves  hardly  succeeded 
in  lifting  from  the  divan;  Ali,  the  Grand  Vizier,  who  could  not 
find  in  all  Arabia  a  horse  that  could  carry  him;  Mahmoud  Pasha, 
the  ferocious  Hercules  that  strangled  the  son  of  Soliman;  and  the 
stupid  Ahmed  Second,  who  continually  repeated  *Koso!  Koso!" 
(Ver}^  well,  very  well)  crouching  before  the  door  of  the  copyists' 
bazaar,  in  the  square  of  Bajazet.  All  the  personages,  of  the 
*  Thousand  and  One  Nights,*  the  Aladdins,  the  Zobeides,  the 
Sindbads,  the  Gulnares,  the  old  Jewish  merchants,  possessors  of 
enchanted  carpets  and  wonderful  lamps,  passed  before  me  like  a 
procession  of  phantoms. 


4.58  EDMONDO  DE   AMICI* 

BIRDS 
From  <  Constantinople  > 

CONSTANTINOPLE  has  onc  grace  and  gayety  peculiar  to  itself, 
that  comes  from  an  infinite  number  of  birds  of  every  kind, 
for  which  the  Turks  nourish  a  warm  sentiment  and  regard. 
Mosques,  groves,  old  walls,  gardens,  palaces,  all  resound  with 
song,  the  whistling  and  twittering  of  birds;  everywhere  wings 
are  fluttering,  and  life  and  harmony  abound.  The  sparrows  enter 
the  houses  boldly,  and  eat  out  of  women's  and  children's  hands; 
swallows  nest  over  the  ca.i6  doors,  and  under  the  arches  of  the 
bazaars;  pigeons  in  innumerable  swarms,  maintained  by  legacies 
from  sultans  and  private  individuals,  form  garlands  of  black  and 
white  along  the  cornices  of  the  cupolas  and  around  the  terraces 
of  the  minarets;  sea-gulls  dart  and  play  over  the  water;  thousands 
of  turtle-doves  coo  amorously  among  the  cypresses  in  the  ceme- 
teries; crows  croak  about  the  Castle  of  the  Seven  Towers  hal- 
cyons come  and  go  in  long  files  between  the  Black  Sea  and 
the  Sea  of  Marmora;  and  storks  sit  upon  the  cupolas  of  the 
mausoleums.  For  the  Turk,  each  one  of  these  birds  has  a  gentle 
meaning,  or  a  benignant  virtue:  turtle-doves  are  favorable  to 
lovers,  swallows  keep  away  fire  from  the  roofs  where  they  build 
their  nests,  storks  make  yearly  pilgrimages  to  Mecca,  halcyons 
carry  the  souls  of  the  faithful  to  Paradise.  Thus  he  protects  and 
feeds  them,  through  a  sentiment  of  gratitude  and  piety;  and  they 
enliven  the  house,  the  sea,  and  the  sepulchre.  Every  quarter  of 
Stamboul  is  full  of  the  noise  of  them,  bringing  to  the  cit}^  a  sense 
of  the  pleasures  of  country  life,  and  continually  refreshing  the 
soul  with  a  reminder  of  nature, 

CORDOVA 

From  <  Spain  > 

FOR  a  long  distance  the  country  offers  no  new  aspect  to  the 
feverish  curiosity  of  the  tourist.  At  Vilches  there  is  a  vast 
plain,  and  beyond  there  the  open  country  of  Tolosa,  where 
Alphonso  VIII.,  King  of  Castile,  gained  the  celebrated  victory 
*de  las  Navas*  over  the  Mussulman  army.  The  sky  was  very 
clear,  and  in  the  distance  one  could  see  the  mountains  of  the 
Sierra  de   Segura.     Suddenly,  there  comes  pver  one  a  sensation 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 


459 


which  seems  to  respond  to  a  suppressed  exclamation  of  surprise: 
the  first  aloes  with  their  thick  leaves,  the  unexpected  heralds  of 
tropical  vegetation,  rise  on  both  sides  of  the  road.  Beyond,  the 
fields  studded  with  flowers  begin  to  appear.  The  first  are  studded, 
those  which  follow  almost  covered,  then  come  vast  stretches  of 
ground  entirely  clothed  with  poppies,  daisies,  lilies,  wild  mush- 
rooms, and  ranunculuses,  so  that  the  country  (as  it  presents  itself 
to  view)  looks  like  a  succession  of  immense  purple,  gold,  and 
snowy-hued  carpets.  In  the  distance,  among  the  trees,  are  in- 
numerable blue,  white,  and  yellow  streaks,  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach;  and  nearer,  on  the  banks  of  the  ditches,  the  elevations  of 
ground,  the  slopes,  and  even  on  the  edge  of  the  road  are  flowers 
in  beds,  clumps,  and  clusters,  one  above  the  other,  grouped  in 
the  form  of  great  bouquets,  and  trembling  on  their  stalks,  which 
one  can  almost  touch  with  his  hand.  Then  there  are  fields  white 
with  great  blades  of  grain,  flanked  by  plantations  of  roses,  orange 
groves,  immense  olive  groves,  and  hillsides  varied  by  a  thousand 
shades  of  green,  surmounted  by  ancient  Moorish  towers,  scattered 
with  many-colgred  houses;  and  between  the  one  and  the  other 
are  white  and  slender  bridges  that  cross  rivulets  hidden  by  the 
trees. 

On  the  horizon  appear  the  snowy  caps  of  the  Sierra  Nevada; 
under  that  white  streak  lie  the  undulating  blue  ones  of  the  nearer 
mountains.  The  country  becomes  more  varied  and  flourishing; 
Arjonilla  lies  in  a  grove  of  olives,  whose  boundary  one  cannot 
see;  Pedro  Abad,  in  the  midst  of  a  plain,  covered  with  vineyards 
and  fruit-trees;  Ventas  di  Alcolea,  on  the  last  hills  of  the  Sierra 
Nevada,  peopled  with  villas  and  gardens.  We  are  approaching 
Cordova,  the  train  flies  along,  we  see  little  stations  half  hidden 
by  trees  and  flowers,  the  wind  carries  the  rose  leaves  into  the 
carriages,  great  butterflies  fly  near  the  windows,  a  delicious  per- 
fiime  permeates  the  air,  the  travelers  sing;  we  pass  through  an 
enchanted  garden,  the  aloes,  oranges,  palms,  and  villas  grow 
more  frequent;  and  at  last  we  hear  a  cry — "Here  is  Cordova!** 

How  many  lovely  pictures  and  grand  recollections  the  sound 
of  that  name  awakens  in  one's  mind!  Cordova, — the  ancient 
pearl  of  the  East,  as  the  Arabian  poets  call  it, —  the  city  of 
cities;  Cordova  of  the  thirty  suburbs  and  three  thousand  mosques, 
which  inclosed  within  her  walls  the  greatest  temple  of  Islam! 
Her  fame  extended  throughout  the  East,  and  obscured  the  glory 
of  ancient  Damascus.     The  faithful  came  from  the  most   remote 


46o  EDMONDO   DE   AJIICIS 

regions  of  Asia  to  banks  of  the  Guadalquivir  to  prostrate  them- 
selves in  the  marvelous  Mihrab  of  her  mosque,  in  the  light  of  the 
thousand  bronze  lamps  cast  from  the  bells  of  the  cathedrals  of 
Spain.  Hither  flocked  artists,  savants,  poets  from  every  part  of 
the  Mahometan  world  to  her  flourishing  schools,  immense  libra- 
ries, and  the  magnificent  courts  of  her  caliphs.  Riches  and 
beauty  flowed  in,  attracted  by  the  fame  of  her  splendor.  From 
here  they  scattered,  eager  for  knowledge,  along  the  coasts  of 
Africa,  through  the  schools  of  Tunis,  Cairo,  Bagdad,  Cufa,  and 
even  to  India  and  China,  in  order  to  gather  inspiration  and 
records;  and  the  poetry  sung  on  the  slopes  of  the  Sierra  Morena 
flew  from  lyre  to  lyre,  as  far  as  the  valleys  of  the  Caucasus,  to 
excite  the  ardor  for  pilgrimages.  The  beautiful,  powerful,  and 
wise  Cordova,  crowned  with  three  thousand  villages,  proudly 
raised  her  white  minarets  in  the  midst  of  orange  groves,  and 
spread  around  the  valley  a  voluptuous  atmosphere  of  joy  and 
glory. 

I  leave  the  train,  cross  a  garden,  look  around  me.  I  am 
alone.  The  travelers  who  were  with  me  disappear  here  and 
there;  I  still  hear  the  noise  of  a  carriage  which  is  rolling  off; 
then  all  is  quiet.  It  is  midday,  the  sky  is  very  clear,  and  the 
air  suffocating.  I  see  two  white  houses;  it  is  the  opening  of  a 
street;  I  enter  and  go  on.  The  street  is  narrow,  the  houses  as 
small  as  the  little  villas  on  the  slopes  of  artificial  gardens, 
almost  all  one  story  in  height,  with  windows  a  few  feet  from 
the  ground,  the  roofs  so  low  that  one  could  almost  touch  them 
with  a  stick,  and  the  walls  very  white.  The  street  turns;  I 
look,  see  no  one,  and  hear  neither  step  nor  voice.  I  say  to 
myself:  —  ^' This  must  be  an  abandoned  street!'*  and  try  another 
one,  in  which  the  houses  are  white,  the  windows  closed,  and 
there  is  nothing  but  silence  and  solitude  around  me.  *^Why, 
where  am  I  ?  **  I  ask  myself.  I  go  on ;  the  street,  which  is  so 
narrow  that  a  carriage  could  not  pass,  begins  to  wind;  on  the 
right  and  left  I  see  other  deserted  streets,  white  houses,  and 
closed  windows.  My  step  resounds  as  if  in  a  corridor.  The 
whiteness  of  the  walls  is  so  vivid  that  even  the  reflection  is 
trying,  and  I  am  obliged  to  walk  with  my  eyes  half  closed,  for 
it  really  seems  as  if  I  were  making  my  way  through  the  snow. 
I  reach  a  small  square;  everything  is  closed,  and  no  one  is  to 
be  seen.  At  this  point  a  vague  feeling  of  melancholy  seizes 
me,    such   as   I   have   never   experienced    before;    a   mixture   of 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS  46 1 

pleasure  and  sadness,  similar  to  that  which  comes  to  children 
when,  after  a  long-  run,  they  reach  a  lonely  rural  spot  and 
rejoice  in  their  discovery,  but  with  a  certain  trepidation  lest 
they  should  be  too  far  from  home.  Above  many  roofs  rise  the 
palm-trees  of  inner  gardens.  Oh,  fantastic  legends  of  Odalisk 
and  Caliph!  On  I  go  from  street  to  street,  and  square  to 
square;  I  begin  to  meet  some  people,  but  they  pass  and  disap- 
pear like  phantoms.  All  the  streets  resemble  each  other;  the 
houses  have  only  three  or  four  windows;  and  not  a  spot,  scrawl, 
or  crack  is  to  be  seen  on  the  walls,  which  are  as  smooth  and 
white  as  a  sheet  of  paper.  From  time  to  time  I  hear  a  whisper 
behind  a  blind,  and  see,  almost  at  the  same  moment,  a  dark 
head,  with  a  flower  in  the  hair,  appear  and  disappear.  I  look 
in  at  a  door.     .     .     . 

A  patio!  How  shall  I  describe  a  patio?  It  is  not  a  court, 
nor  a  garden,  nor  a  room;  but  it  is  all  three  things  combined. 
Between  the  patio  and  the  street  there  is  a  vestibule.  On  the 
four  sides  of  the  patio  rise  slender  columns,  which  support,  up 
to  a  level  with  the  first  floor,  a  species  of  gallery  inclosed  in 
glass;  above  the  gallery  is  stretched  a  canvas,  which  shades  the 
court.  The  vestibule  is  paved  with  marble,  the  door  flanked 
by  columns,  surmounted  by  bas-reliefs,  and  closed  by  a  slendei 
iron  gate  of  graceful  design.  At  the  end  of  the  patio  there  is 
a  fountain;  and  all  around  are  scattered  chairs,  work-tables, 
pictures,  and  vases  of  flowers.  I  run  to  another  door:  there  is 
another  patio,  with  its  walls  covered  with  ivy,  and  a  number  of 
niches  holding  little  statues,  busts,  and  urns.  I  look  in  at  a  third 
door:  here  is  another  patio,  with  its  walls  worked  in  mosaics,  a 
palm  in  the  centre,  and  a  mass  of  flowers  all  around.  I  stop  at 
a  fourth  door:  after  the  patio  there  is  another  vestibule,  after  this 
a  second  patio,  in  which  one  sees  other  statues,  columns,  and 
fountains.  All  these  rooms  and  gardens  are  so  neat  and  clean 
that  one  could  pass  his  hand  over  the  walls  and  on  the  ground 
without  leaving  a  trace;  and  they  are  fresh,  odorous,  and  lighted 
by  an  uncertain  light,  which  increases  their  beauty  and  mysterious 
appearance. 

On  I  go  at  random  from  street  to  street.  As  I  walk,  my 
curiosity  increases  and  I  quicken  my  pace.  It  seems  impossible 
that  a  whole  city  can  be  like  this;  I  am  afraid  of  stumbling 
across  some  house  or  coming  into  some  street  that  will  remind 
me  of  other  cities,  and  disturb  my  beautiful  dream.      But  no,  the 


462  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

dream  lasts;  for  everything  is  small,  lovely,  and  mysterious.  At 
every  hundred  steps  I  reach  a  deserted  square,  in  which  I  stop 
and  hold  my  breath;  from  time  to  time  there  appears  a  cross- 
road, and  not  a  living  soul  is  to  be  seen;  everything  is  white, 
the  windows  closed,  and  silence  reigns  on  all  sides.  At  each 
door  there  is  a  new  spectacle;  there  are  arches,  columns,  flowers, 
jets  of  water,  and  palms;  a  marvelous  variety  of  design,  tints, 
light,  and  perfume;  here  the  odor  of  roses,  there  of  oranges, 
farther  on  of  pinks;  and  with  this  perfume  a  whiff  of  fresh  air, 
and  with  the  air  a  subdued  sound  of  women's  voices,  the  rustling 
of  leaves,  and  the  singing  of  birds.  It  is  a  sweet  and  varied 
harmony,  that  without  disturbing  the  silence  of  the  streets, 
soothes  the  ear  like  the  echo  of  distant  music.  Ah!  it  is  not  a 
dream!  Madrid,  Italy,  Europe,  are  indeed  far  away!  Here  one 
lives  another  life,  and  breathes  the  air  of  a  different  world, — for 
I  am  in  the  East. 


THE  LAND  OP  PLUCK 

From  < Holland  and  Its  People* 

WHOEVER  looks  for  the  first  time  at  a  large  map  of  Holland 
wonders  that  a  country  so  constituted  can  continue  tc 
exist.  At  the  first  glance  it  is  difficult  to  see  whether 
land  or  water  predominates,  or  whether  Holland  belongs  most  to 
the  continent  or  to  the  sea.  Those  broken  and  compressed 
coasts;  those  deep  bays;  those  great  rivers  that,  losing  the  aspect 
of  rivers,  seem  bringing  new  seas  to  the  sea;  that  sea  which, 
changing  itself  into  rivers,  penetrates  the  land  and  breaks  it  into 
archipelagoes;  the  lakes,  the  vast  morasses,  the  canals  crossing 
and  recrossing  each  other,  all  combine  to  give  the  idea  of  a 
country  that  may  at  any  moment  disintegrate  and  disappear. 
Seals  and  beavers  would  seem  to  be  its  rightful  inhabitants;  but 
since  there  are  men  bold  enough  to  live  in  it,  they  surely  cannot 
ever  sleep  in  peace. 

What  sort  of  a  country  Holland  is,  has  been  told  by  many  in 
few  words.  Napoleon  said  it  was  an  alluvion  of  French  rivers, — 
the  Rhine,  the  Scheldt,  and  the  Meuse, —  and  with  this  pretext  he 
added  it  to  the  Empire.  One  writer  has  defined  it  as  a  sort  of 
transition  between  land  and  sea.  Another,  as  an  immense  crust 
of   earth    floating    on    the    water.     Others,    an    annex    of    the    old 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 


463 


continent,  the  China  of  Europe,  the  end  of  the  earth  and  the 
beginning  of  the  ocean,  a  measureless  raft  of  mud  and  sand; 
and  Philip  II.  called  it  the  country  nearest  to  hell. 

But  they  all  agreed  upon  one  point,  and  all  expressed  it  in 
the  same  words:  —  Holland  is  a  conquest  made  by  man  over  the 
sea;  it  is  an  artificial  country:  the  Hollanders  made  it;  it  exists 
because  the  Hollanders  preserve  it;  it  will  vanish  whenever  the 
Hollanders  shall  abandon  it. 

To  comprehend  this  truth,  we  must  imagine  Holland  as  it  was 
when  first  inhabited  by  the  first  German  tribes  that  wandered 
away  in  search  of  a  country. 

It  was  almost  uninhabitable.  There  were  vast  tempestuous 
lakes,  like  seas,  touching  one  another;  morass  beside  morass;  one 
tract  after  another  covered  with  brushwood;  immense  forests  of 
pines,  oaks,  and  alders,  traversed  by  herds  of  wild  horses,  and 
so  thick  were  these  forests  that  tradition  says  one  could  travel 
leagues  passing  from  tree  to  tree  without  ever  putting  foot  to  the 
ground.  The  deep  bays  and  gulfs  carried  into  the  heart  of  the 
country  the  fury  of  the  northern  tempests.  Some  provinces  dis- 
appeared once  every  year  under  the  waters  of  the  sea,  and  were 
nothing  but  muddy  tracts,  neither  land  nor  water,  where  it  was 
impossible  either  to  walk  or  to  sail.  The  large  rivers,  without 
sufficient  inclination  to  descend  to  the  sea,  wandered  here  and 
there  uncertain  of  their  way,  and  slept  in  monstrous  pools  and 
ponds  among  the  sands  of  the  coasts.  It  was  a  sinister  place, 
swept  by  furious  winds,  beaten  by  obstinate  rains,  veiled  in  a 
perpetual  fog,  where  nothing  was  heard  but  the  roar  of  the  sea 
and  the  voices  of  wild  beasts  and  birds  of  the  ocean.  The  first 
people  who  had  the  courage  to  plant  their  tents  there,  had  to 
raise  with  their  own  hands  dikes  of  earth  to  keep  out  the  rivers 
and  the  sea,  and  lived  within  them  like  shipwrecked  men  upon 
desolate  islands,  venturing  forth  at  the  subsidence  of  the  waters 
in  quest  of  food  in  the  shape  of  fish  and  game,  and  gathering  the 
eggs  of  marine  birds  upon  the  sand. 

Caesar,  passing  by,  was  the  first  to  name  this  people.  The 
other  Latin  historians  speak  with  compassion  and  respect  of  these 
intrepid  barbarians  who  lived  upon  a  "floating  land,'*  exposed  to 
the  intemperance  of  a  cruel  sky  and  the  fury  of  the  mysterious 
northern  sea;  and  the  imagination  pictures  the  Roman  soldiers, 
who,  from  the  heights  of  the  uttermost  citadels  of  the  empire, 
beaten   by  the  waves,   contemplated  with  wonder  and   pity  those 


464 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 


wandering  tribes  upon  their  desolate  land,  like  a  race  accursed  of 
heaven. 

Now,  if  we  remember  that  such  a  region  has  become  one  of 
the  most  fertile,  wealthiest,  and  best  regulated  of  the  countries 
of  the  world,  we  shall  understand  the  justice  of  the  saying  that 
Holland  is  a  conquest  made  by  man.  But,  it  must  be  added,  the 
conquest  goes  on  forever. 

To  explain  this  fact  —  to  show  how  the  existence  of  Holland, 
in  spite  of  the  great  defensive  works  constructed  by  the  inhabit- 
ants, demands  an  incessant  and  most  perilous  struggle  —  it  will 
be  enough  to  touch  here  and  there  upon  a  few  of  the  principal 
vicissitudes  of  her  physical  history,  from  the  time  when  her 
inhabitants  had  already  reduced  her  to  a  habitable  country. 

Tradition  speaks  of  a  great  inundation  in  Friesland  in  the 
sixth  century.  From  that  time  every  gulf,  every  island,  and  it 
may  be  said  every  city,  in  Holland  has  its  catastrophe  to  record. 
In  thirteen  centuries,  it  is  recorded  that  one  great  inundation, 
beside  smaller  ones,  has  occurred  every  seven  years;  and  the 
country  being  all  plain,  these  inundations  were  veritable  floods. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century,  the  sea  destroyed  a 
part  of  a  fertile  peninsula  near  the  mouth  of  the  Ems,  and  swal- 
lowed up  more  than  thirty  villages.  In  the  course  of  the  same 
century,  a  series  of  inundations  opened  an  immense  chasm  in 
northern  Holland,  and  formed  the  Zuyder  Zee,  causing  the  death 
of  more  than  eighty  thousand  persons.  In  142 1  a  tempest  swelled 
the  Meuse,  so  that  in  one  night  the  waters  overwhelmed  seventy- 
two  villages  and  one  hundred  thousand  inhabitants.  In  1532  the 
sea  burst  the  dikes  of  Zealand,  destroying  hundreds  of  villages, 
and  covering  forever  a  large  tract  of  country.  In  1570  a  storm 
caused  another  inundation  in  Zealand  and  in  the  province  of 
Utrecht;  Amsterdam  was  invaded  by  the  waters,  and  in  Fries- 
land  twenty  thousand  people  were  drowned.  Other  great  inunda- 
tions took  place  in  the  seventeenth  century;  two  terrible  ones  at 
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  the  eighteenth;  one  in  1825  that 
desolated  North  Holland,  Friesland,  Over-Yssel,  and  Gueldres; 
and  another  great  one  of  the  Rhine,  in  1855,  which  invaded 
Gueldres  and  the  province  of  Utrecht,  and  covered  a  great  part 
of  North  Brabant.  Beside  these  great  catastrophes,  there  hap- 
pened in  different  centuries  innumerable  smaller  ones,  which 
would  have  been  famous  in  any  other  country,  but  which  in 
Holland   are   scarcely  remembered^   like   the  rising  of  the  lake  of 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS  465 

Haarlem,  itself  the  result  of  an  inundation  of  the  sea;  flourishing 
cities  of  the  gulf  of  Zuyder  Zee  vanished  under  the  waters;  the 
islands  of  Zealand  covered  again  and  again  by  the  sea,  and  again 
emerging;  villages  of  the  coast,  from  Helder  to  the  mouths  of 
the  Meuse,  from  time  to  time  inundated  and  destroyed;  and  in 
all  these  inundations  immense  loss  of  life  of  men  and  animals 
It  is  plain  that  miracles  of  courage,  constancy,  and  industry  must 
have  been  accomplished  by  the  Hollanders,  first  in  creating  and 
afterwards  in  preserving  such  a  country.  The  enemy  from  which 
they  had  to  wrest  it  was  triple:  the  sea,  the  lakes,  the  rivers. 
They  drained  the  lakes,  drove  back  the  sea,  and  imprisoned  the 
rivers. 

To  drain  the  lakes  the  Hollanders  pressed  the  air  into  their 
service  The  lakes,  the  marshes,  were  surrounded  by  dikes,  the 
dikes  by  canals;  and  an  army  of  windmills,  putting  in  motion 
force-pumps,  turned  the  water  into  the  canals,  which  carried  it 
off  to  the  rivers  and  the  sea.  Thus  vast  tracts  of  land  buried 
under  the  water  saw  the  sun,  and  were  transformed,  as  if  by 
magic,  into  fertile  fields,  covered  with  villages,  and  intersected  by 
canals  and  roads.  In  the  seventeenth  century,  in  less  than  forty 
years,  twenty-six  lakes  were  drained.  At  the  beginning  of  the 
present  centur}^  in  North  Holland  alone,  more  than  six  thousand 
hectares  (or  fifteen  thousand  acres)  were  thus  redeemed  from  the 
waters;  in  South  Holland,  before  1844,  twenty-nine  thousand 
hectares;  in  the  whole  of  Holland,  from  1500  to  1858,  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty-five  thousand  hectares.  Substituting  steam-mills 
for  windmills,  in  thirty-nine  months  was  completed  the  great 
undertaking  of  the  draining  of  the  lake  of  Haarlem,  which  meas- 
ured forty-four  kilometres  in  circumference,  and  forever  threatened 
with  its  tempests  the  cities  of  Haarlem,  Amsterdam,  and  Leyden. 
And  they  are  now  meditating  the  prodigious  work  of  dr\nng  up 
the  Zuyder  Zee,  which  embraces  an  area  of  more  than  seven 
hundred  square  kilometres. 

The  rivers,  another  eternal  enemy,  cost  no  less  of  labor  and 
sacrifice.  Some,  like  the  Rhine,  which  lost  itself  in  the  sands 
before  reaching  the  sea,  had  to  be  channeled  and  defended  at 
their  mouths,  against  the  tides,  by  formidable  cataracts;  others, 
like  the  Meuse,  bordered  by  dikes  as  powerful  as  those  that 
were  raised  against  the  ocean;  others,  turned  from  their  course; 
the  wandering  waters  gathered  together;  the  course  of  the  afflu- 
ents regulated;  the  waters  divided  with  rigorous  measure  in  order 
I — ^o 


466  EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 

to  retain  that  enormous  mass  of  liquid  in  equilibrium,  where  the 
slightest  inequality  might  cost  a  province;  and  in  this  way  all 
the  rivers  that  formerly  spread  their  devastating  floods  about 
the  country  were  disciplined  into  channels  and  constrained  to  do 
service. 

But  the  most  tremendous  struggle  was  the  battle  with  the 
ocean.  Holland  is  in  great  part  lower  than  the  level  of  the  sea; 
consequently,  everywhere  that  the  coast  is  not  defended  by  sand- 
banks it  has  to  be  protected  by  dikes.  If  these  interminable  bul- 
warks of  earth,  granite,  and  wood  were  not  there  to  attest  the 
indomitable  courage  and  perseverance  of  the  Hollanders,  it  would 
not  be  believed  that  the  hand  of  man  could,  even  in  many  cen- 
turies, have  accomplished  such  a  work.  In  Zealand  alone  the 
dikes  extend  to  a  distance  of  more  than  four  hundred  kilometres. 
The  western  coast  of  the  island  of  Walcheren  is  defended  by  a 
dike,  in  which  it  is  computed  that  the  expense  of  construction 
added  to  that  of  preservation,  if  it  were  put  out  at  interest, 
would  amount  to  a  sum  equal  in  value  to  that  which  the  dike 
itself  would  be  worth  were  it  made  of  massive  copper.  Around 
the  city  of  Helder,  at  the  northern  extremity  of  North  Holland, 
extends  a  dike  ten  kilometres  long,  constructed  of  masses  of  Nor- 
wegian granite,  which  descends  more  than  sixty  metres  into  the 
sea.  The  whole  province  of  Friesland,  for  the  length  of  eighty- 
eight  kilometres,  is  defended  by  three  rows  of  piles  sustained  by 
masses  of  Norwegian  and  German  granite.  Amsterdam,  all  the 
cities  of  the  Zuyder  Zee,  and  all  the  islands, — fragments  of  van- 
ished lands,  —  which  are  strung  like  beads  between  Friesland  and 
North  Holland,  are  protected  by  dikes.  From  the  mouths  of  the 
Ems  to  those  of  the  Scheldt,  Holland  is  an  impenetrable  fortress, 
of  whose  immense  bastions  the  mills  are  the  towers,  the  cataracts 
are  the  gates,  the  islands  the  advanced  forts;  and  like  a  true 
fortress,  it  shows  to  its  enemy,  the  sea,  only  the  tops  of  its  bell- 
towers  and  the  roofs  of  its  houses,  as  if  in  defiance  and  derision. 

Holland  is  a  fortress,  and  her  people  live  as  in  a  fortress,  on 
a  war  footing  with  the  sea.  An  army  of  engineers,  directed  by 
the  Minister  of  the  Interior,  spread  over  the  country,  and,  ordered 
like  an  army,  continually  spy  the  enemy,  watch  over  the  internal 
waters,  foresee  the  bursting  of  the  dikes,  order  and  direct  the 
defensive  works.  The  expenses  of  the  war  are  divided, — one 
part  to  the  State,  one  part  to  the  provinces;  every  proprietor 
pays,  beside   the   general  imposts,  a  special   impost  for  the  dikes, 


EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS 


467 


m  proportion  to  the  extent  of  his  lands  and  their  proximity  to 
the  water.  An  accidental  rupture,  an  inadvertence,  may  cause  a 
flood;  the  peril  is  unceasing;  the  sentinels  are  at  their  posts  upon 
the  bulwarks;  at  the  first  assault  of  the  sea,  they  shout  the  war- 
cry,  and  Holland  sends  men,  material,  and  money.  And  even 
when  there  is  no  great  battle,  a  quiet,  silent  struggle  is  forever 
going  on.  The  innumerable  mills,  even  in  the  drained  districts, 
continue  to  work  unresting,  to  absorb  and  turn  into  the  canals 
the  water  that  falls  in  rain  and  that  which  filters  in  from  the  sea. 
Every  day  the  cataracts  of  the  bays  and  rivers  close  their  gigan- 
tic gates  against  the  high  tide  trying  to  rush  into  the  heart  of 
the  land.  The  work  of  strengthening  dikes,  fortifying  sand-banks 
with  plantations,  throwing  out  new  dikes  where  the  banks  are 
low,  straight  as  great  lances,  vibrating  in  the  bosom  of  the  sea 
and  breaking  the  first  impetus  of  the  wave,  is  forever  going  on. 
And  the  sea  eternally  knocks  at  the  river-gates,  beats  upon  the 
ramparts,  growls  on  every  side  her  ceaseless  menace,  lifting  her 
curious  waves  as  if  to  see  the  land  she  counts  as  hers,  piling  up 
banks  of  sand  before  the  gates  to  kill  the  commerce  of  the  cities, 
forever  gnawing,  scratching,  digging  at  the  coast;  and  failing  to 
overthrow  the  ramparts  upon  which  she  foams  and  fumes  in 
ang^  effort,  she  casts  at  their  feet  ships  full  of  the  dead,  that 
they  may  announce  to  the  rebellious  country  her  fury  and  her 
strength. 

In  the  midst  of  this  great  and  terrible  struggle  Holland  is 
transformed:  Holland  is  the  land  of  transformations.  A  geo- 
graphical map  of  that  country  as  it  existed  eight  centuries  ago 
is  not  recognizable.  Transforming  the  sea,  men  also  are  trans- 
formed. The  sea,  at  some  points,  drives  back  the  land;  it  takes 
portions  from  the  continent,  leaves  them  and  takes  them  again; 
joins  islands  to  the  mainland  with  ropes  of  sand,  as  in  the  case 
of  Zealand;  breaks  off  bits  from  the  mainland  and  makes  new 
islands,  as  in  Wieringen;  retires  from  certain  coasts  and  makes 
land  cities  out  of  what  were  cities  of  the  sea,  as  Leuvarde;  con- 
verts vast  tracts  of  plain  into  archipelagoes  of  a  hundred  islets, 
as  Biisbosch;  separates  a  city  from  the  land,  as  Dordrecht;  forms 
new  gulfs  two  leagues  broad,  like  the  g^lf  of  Dollart;  divides 
two  provinces  with  a  new  sea,  like  North  Holland  and  Friesland. 
The  effect  of  the  inundations  is  to  cause  the  level  of  the  sea  to 
rise  in  some  places  and  to  sink  in  others;  sterile  lands  are  fertil- 
ized  by  the   slime    of  the   rivers,    fertile   lands  are   changed  into 


468 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 


deserts  of  sand.  With  the  transformations  of  the  waters  alternate 
the  transformations  of  labor.  Islands  are  united  to  continents, 
like  the  island  of  Ameland;  entire  provinces  are  reduced  to 
islands,  as  North  Holland  will  be  by  the  new  canal  of  Amster- 
dam, which  is  to  separate  it  from  South  Holland;  lakes  as  large 
as  provinces  disappear  altogether,  like  the  lake  of  Beemster;  by 
the  extraction  of  peat,  land  is  converted  into  lakes,  and  these 
lakes  are  again  transformed  into  meadows.  And  thus  the  country 
changes  its  aspect  according  to  the  violence  of  nature  or  the 
needs  of  men.  And  while  one  goes  over  it  with  the  latest  map 
in  hand,  one  may  be  sure  that  the  map  will  be  useless  in  a  few 
years,  because  even  now  there  are  new  gulfs  in  process  of  forma- 
tion, tracts  of  land  just  ready  to  be  detached  from  the  mainland, 
and  gfreat  canals  being  cut  that  will  carry  life  to  uninhabited  dis- 
tricts. 

But  Holland  has  done  more  than  defend  herself  against  the 
waters;  she  has  made  herself  mistress  of  them,  and  has  used 
them  for  her  own  defense.  Should  a  foreign  army  invade  her 
territory,  she  has  but  to  open  her  dikes  and  imchain  the  sea  and 
the  rivers,  as  she  did  against  the  Romans,  against  the  Spaniards, 
against  the  army  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  defend  the  land  cities  with 
her  fleet.  Water  was  the  source  of  her  poverty,  she  has  made 
it  the  source  of  wealth.  Over  the  whole  country  extends  an 
immense  network  of  canals,  which  serves  both  for  the  irrigation 
of  the  land  and  as  a  means  of  communication.  The  cities,  by 
means  of  canals,  communicate  with  the  sea;  canals  run  from 
town  to  town,  and  from  them  to  villages,  which  are  themselves 
bound  together  by  these  watery  ways,  and  are  connected  even  to 
the  houses  scattered  over  the  country;  smaller  canals  surround 
the  fields  and  orchards,  pastures  and  kitchen-gardens,  serving  at 
once  as  boundary  wall,  hedge,  and  road-way;  every  house  is  a 
little  port.  Ships,  boats,  rafts,  move  about  in  all  directions,  as 
in  other  places  carts  and  carriages.  The  canals  are  the  arteries 
of  Holland,  and  the  water  her  life-blood.  But  even  setting  aside 
the  canals,  the  draining  of  the  lakes,  and  the  defensive  works,  on 
every  side  are  seen  the  traces  of  marvelous  undertakings.  The 
soil,  which  in  other  countries  is  a  gift  of  nature,  is  in  Holland  a 
work  of  men's  hands.  Holland  draws  the  greater  part  of  her 
wealth  from  commerce;  but  before  commerce  comes  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  soil;  and  the  soil  had  to  be  created.  There  were 
sand-banks   interspersed   with   layers  ot   peat,  broad  downs   swept 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 


469 


by  the  winds,  great  tracts  of  barren  land  apparently  condemned 
to  an  eternal  sterility.  The  first  elements  of  manufacture,  iron 
and  coal,  were  wanting;  there  was  no  wood,  because  the  forests 
had  already  been  destroyed  by  tempests  when  agriculture  began; 
there  was  no  stone,  there  were  no  metals.  Nature,  says  a  Dutch 
poet,  had  refused  all  her  gifts  to  Holland;  the  Hollanders  had  to 
do  everything  in  spite  of  nature.  They  began  by  fertilizing  the 
sand.  In  some  places  they  formed  a  productive  soil  with  earth 
brought  from  a  distance,  as  a  garden  is  made;  they  spread  the 
siliceous  dust  of  the  downs  over  the  too  watery  meadows;  they 
mixed  with  the  sandy  earth  the  remains  of  peat  taken  from  the 
bottoms;  they  extracted  clay  to  lend  fertility  to  the  surface  of 
their  lands;  they  labored  to  break  up  the  downs  with  the  plow: 
and  thus  in  a  thousand  ways,  and  continually  fighting  off  the 
menacing  waters,  they  succeeded  in  bringing  Holland  to  a  state 
of  cultivation  not  inferior  to  that  of  more  favored  regions.  That 
Holland,  that  sandy,  marshy  country  which  the  ancients  consid- 
ered all  but  uninhabitable,  now  sends  out  yearly  from  her  con- 
fines agricultural  products  to  the  value  of  a  hundred  millions  of 
francs,  possesses  about  one  million  three  hundred  thousand  head 
of  cattle,  and  in  proportion  to  the  extent  of  her  territory  may  be 
accounted  one  of  the  most  populous  of  European  States. 

It  may  be  easily  understood  how  the  physical  peculiarities  of 
their  country  must  influence  the  Dutch  people  ;  and  their  genius 
is  in  perfect  harmony  with  the  character  of  Holland.  It  is  suffi- 
cient to  contemplate  the  monuments  of  their  great  struggle  with 
the  sea  in  order  to  understand  that  their  distinctive  characteristics 
must  be  firmness  and  patience,  accompanied  by  a  calm  and  con- 
stant courage.  That  glorious  battle,  and  the  consciousness  of 
owing  everything  to  their  own  strength,  must  have  infused  and 
fortified  in  them  a  high  sense  of  dignity  and  an  indomitable  spirit 
of  liberty  and  independence.  The  necessity  of  a  constant  struggle, 
of  a  continuous  labor,  and  of  perpetual  sacrifices  in  defense  of 
their  existence,  forever  taking  them  back  to  a  sense  of  reality, 
must  have  made  them  a  highly  practical  and  economical  people; 
good  sense  should  be  their  most  salient  quality,  economy  one  of 
their  chief  virtues;  they  must  be  excellent  in  all  iiseful  arts, 
sparing  of  diversion,  simple  even  in  their  greatness;  succeeding 
in  what  they  undertake  by  dint  of  tenacity  and  a  thoughtful  and 
orderly  activity;  more  ^^dse  than  heroic;  more  conservative  than 
creative;    giving    no    great    architects   to   the    edifice    of    modem 


47© 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 


thougnt,  but  the  ablest  of  workmen,  a  legion  of  patient  and 
laborious  artisans.  And  by  virtue  of  these  qualities  of  prudence, 
phlegmatic  activity,  and  the  spirit  of  conservatism,  they  are  ever 
advancing,  though  by  slow  degrees;  they  acquire  gradually,  but 
never  lose  what  they  have  gained;  holding  stubbornly  to  their 
ancient  customs;  preserving  almost  intact,  and  despite  the  neigh- 
borhood of  three  great  nations,  their  own  originality;  preserving 
it  through  every  form  of  government,  through  foreign  invasions, 
through  political  and  religious  wars,  and  in  spite  of  the  immense 
concourse  of  strangers  from  every  country  that  are  always  coming 
among  them;  and  remaining,  in  short,  of  all  the  northern  races, 
that  one  which,  though  ever  advancing  in  the  path  of  civilization, 
has  kept  its  antique  stamp  most  clearly. 

It  is  enough  also  to  remember  its  form  in  order  to  compre- 
hend that  this  country  of  three  millions  and  a  half  of  inhabitants, 
although  bound  in  so  compact  a  political  union,  although  recog- 
nizable among  all  the  other  northern  peoples  by  certain  traits 
peculiar  to  the  population  of  all  its  provinces,  must  present  a 
great  variety.  And  so  it  is  in  fact.  Between  Zealand  and  Hol- 
land proper,  between  Holland  and  Friesland,  between  Friesland 
and  Gueldres,  between  Groningen  and  Brabant,  in  spite  of 
vicinity  and  so  many  common  ties,  there  is  no  less  difference 
than  between  the  more  distant  provinces  of  Italy  and  France; 
difference  of  language,  costume,  and  character;  difference  of  race 
and  of  religion.  The  communal  regime  has  impressed  an  indeli- 
ble mark  upon  this  people,  because  in  no  other  country  does  it 
so  conform  to  the  nature  of  things.  The  country  is  divided  into 
various  groups  of  interests  organized  in  the  same  manner  as  the 
hydraulic  system.  Whence,  association  and  mutual  help  against 
the  common  enemy,  the  sea;  but  liberty  for  local  institutions 
and  forces.  Monarchy  has  not  extinguished  the  ancient  munici- 
pal spirit,  and  this  it  is  that  renders  impossible  a  complete  fusion 
of  the  State,  in  all  the  great  States  that  have  made  the  attempt. 
The  great  rivers  and  gulfs  are  at  the  same  time  commercial 
roads  serving  as  national  bonds  between  the  different  provinces, 
and  barriers  which  defend  old  traditions  and  old  customs  in  each. 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 


471 


THE  DUTCH  MASTERS 

From  <  Holland  and  Its  People  > 

THE  DutcK  school  of  painting  has  one  quality  which  renders  it 
particularly  attractive  to  us  Italians;  it  is  above  all  others 
the  most  different  from  our  own,  the  very  antithesis  or  the 
opposite  pole  of  art.  The  Dutch  and  Italian  schools  are  the  most 
original,  or,  as  has  been  said,  the  only  two  to  which  the  title 
rigorously  belongs;  the  others  being  only  daughters  or  younger 
sisters,  more  or  less  resembling  them. 

Thus  even  in  painting  Holland  offers  that  which  is  most  sought 
after  in  travel  and  in  books  of  travel:  the  new. 

Dutch  painting  was  bom  with  the  liberty  and  independence  of 
Holland.  As  long  as  the  northern  and  southern  provinces  of  the 
Low  Countries  remained  under  the  Spanish  rule  and  in  the  Cath- 
olic faith,  Dutch  painters  painted  like  Belgian  painters;  they  stud- 
ied in  Belgium,  Germany,  and  Italy;  Heemskerk  imitated  Michael 
Angelo,  Bloemart  followed  Correggio,  and  ^*  II  Moro "  copied 
Titian,  not  to  indicate  others :  and  they  were  one  and  all  pedantic 
imitators,  who  added  to  the  exaggerations  of  the  Italian  style  a 
certain  German  coarsenesss,  the  result  of  which  was  a  bastard 
style  of  painting,  still  inferior  to  the  first,  childish,  stiff  in  design, 
crude  in  color,  and  completely  wanting  in  chiaroscuro,  but  at  least 
not  a  servile  imitation,  and  becoming,  as  it  were,  a  faint  prelude 
of  the  true  Dutch  art  that  was  to  be. 

With  the  war  of  independence,  liberty,  reform,  and  painting 
also  were  renewed.  With  religious  traditions  fell  artistic  tradi- 
tions; the  nude  nymphs,  Madonnas,  saints,  allegory,  mythology, 
the  ideal  —  all  the  old  edifice  fell  to  pieces.  Holland,  animated  by 
a  new  life,  felt  the  need  of  manifesting  and  expanding  it  in  a 
new  way;  the  small  country,  become  all  at  once  glorious  and 
formidable,  felt  the  desire  for  illustration ;  the  faculties  which  had 
been  excited  and  strengthened  in  the  grand  undertaking  of  creat- 
ing a  nation,  now  that  the  work  was  completed,  overflowed  and 
ran  into  new  channels.  The  conditions  of  the  country  were  favor- 
able to  the  revival  of  art.  The  supreme  dangers  were  conjured 
away;  there  was  security,  prosperity,  a  splendid  future;  the  heroes 
had  done  their  duty,  and  the  artists  were  permitted  to  come  to 
the  front;  Holland,  after  many  sacrifices,  and  much  suffering, 
issued  victoriously  from  the  struggle,  lifted  her  face  among  her 
people  and  smiled.     And  that  smile  is  art. 


472 


EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS 


What  that  art  would  necessarily  be,  might  have  been  guessed 
even  had  no  monument  of  it  remained.  A  pacific,  laborious,  prac- 
tical people,  continually  beaten  down,  to  quote  a  great  German 
poet,  to  prosaic  realities  by  the  occupations  of  a  vulgar  burgher 
life;  cultivating  its  reason  at  the  expense  of  its  imagination;  liv- 
ing, consequently,  more  in  clear  ideas  than  in  beautiful  images; 
taking  refuge  from  abstractions;  never  darting  its  thoughts  beyond 
that  nature  with  which  it  is  in  perpetual  battle;  seeing  only  that 
which  is,  enjoying  only  that  which  it  can  possess,  making  its  hap^ 
piness  consist  in  the  tranquil  ease  and  honest  sensuality  of  a  life 
without  violent  passions  or  exorbitant  desires;  —  such  a  people 
must  have  tranquillity  also  in  their  art,  they  must  love  an  art  that 
pleases  without  startling  the  mind,  which  addresses  the  senses 
rather  than  the  spirit;  an  art  full  of  repose,  precision,  and  deli- 
cacy, though  material  like  their  lives:  in  one  word,  a  realistic  art, 
in  which  they  can  see  themselves  as  they  are  and  as  they  are  con- 
tent to  be. 

The  artists  began  by  tracing  that  which  they  saw  before  their 
eyes  —  the  house.  The  long  winters,  the  persistent  rains,  the 
dampness,  the  variableness  of  the  climate,  obliged  the  Hollander 
to  stay  within  doors  the  greater  part  of  the  year.  He  loved  his 
little  house,  his  shell,  much  better  than  we  love  our  abodes,  for 
the  reason  that  he  had  more  need  of  it,  and  stayed  more  within 
it;  he  provided  it  with  all  sorts  of  conveniences,  caressed  it,  made 
much  of  it;  he  liked  to  look  out  from  his  well-stopped  windows 
at  the  falling  snow  and  the  drenching  rain,  and  to  hug  himself 
with  the  thought,  <<  Rage,  tempest,  I  am  warm  and  safe !  *^  Snug 
in  his  shell,  his  faithful  housewife  beside  him,  his  children  about 
him,  he  passed  the  long  autumn  and  winter  evenings  in  eating 
much,  drinking  much,  smoking  much,  and  taking  his  well-earned 
ease  after  the  cares  of  the  day  were  over.  The  Dutch  painters 
represented  these  houses  and  this  life  in  Httle  pictures  proportion- 
ate to  the  size  of  the  walls  on  which  they  were  to  hang;  the  bed- 
chambers that  make  one  feel  a  desire  to  sleep,  the  kitchens,  the 
tables  set  out,  the  fresh  and  smiling  faces  of  the  house-mothers, 
the  men  at  their  ease  around  the  fire;  and  with  that  conscientious 
realism  which  never  forsakes  them,  they  depict  the  dozing  cat,  the 
yawning  dog,  the  clucking  hen,  the  broom,  the  vegetables,  the 
scattered  pots  and  pans,  the  chicken  ready  for  the  spit.  Thus 
they  represent  life  in  all  its  scenes,  and  in  every  grade  of  the 
social  scale  — the  dance,  the  conversazione,  the  orgie,  the  feast,  the 


EDMONDO   DE  AMICIS  ^y* 

game;  and  thus  did  Terburg,  Metzu,  Netscher,  Dow,  Mieris,  Steen, 
Brouwer,  and  Van  Ostade  become  famous. 

After  depicting  the  house,  they  turned  their  attention  to  the 
country.  The  stem  cHmate  allowed  but  a  brief  time  for  the 
admiration  of  nature,  but  for  this  very  reason  Dutch  artists 
admired  her  all  the  more;  they  saluted  the  spring  with  a  livelier 
joy,  and  permitted  that  fugitive  smile  of  heaven  to  stamp  itself 
more  deeply  on  their  fancy.  .  The  country  was  not  beautiful,  but 
it  was  twice  dear  because  it  had  been  torn  from  the  sea  and 
from  the  foreign  oppressor.  The  Dutch  artist  painted  it  lov- 
ingly; he  represented  it  simply,  ingenuously,  with  a  sense  of 
intimacy  which  at  that  time  was  not  to  be  found  in  Italian  or 
Belgian  landscape.  The  flat,  monotonous  country  had,  to  the 
Dutch  painter's  eyes,  a  marvelous  variety.  He  caught  all  the 
mutations  of  the  sky,  and  knew  the  value  of  the  water,  with  its 
reflections,  its  grace  and  freshness,  and  its  power  of  illuminating 
everything.  Having  no  mountains,  he  took  the  dikes  for  back- 
ground; with  no  forests,  he  imparted  to  a  single  group  of  trees 
all  the  mystery  of  a  forest;  and  he  animated  the  whole  with 
beautiful  animals  and  white  sails. 

The  subjects  of  their  pictures  are  poor  enough, — a  windmill, 
a  canal,  a  gray  sky;  but  how  they  make  one  think!  A  few 
Dutch  painters,  not  content  with  nature  in  their  own  country, 
came  to  Italy  in  search  of  hills,  luminous  skies,  and  famous 
ruins;  and  another  band  of  select  artists  is  the  result,  —  Both, 
Swanevelt,  Pynacker,  Breenberg,  Van  Laer,  Asselyn.  Bxit  the 
palm  remains  with  the  landscapists  of  Holland;  with  Wynants 
the  painter  of  morning,  with  Van  der  Neer  the  painter  of  night, 
with  Ruysdael  the  painter  of  melancholy,  with  Hobbema  the 
illustrator  of  windmills,  cabins,  and  kitchen  gardens,  and  with 
others  who  have  restricted  themselves  to  the  expression  of  the 
enchantment  of  nature  as  she  is  in  Holland. 

Simultaneously  with  landscape  art  was  bom  another  kind  of 
painting,  especially  peculiar  to  Holland, — animal  painting.  Ani- 
mals are  the  riches  of  the  country;  that  magnificent  race  of 
cattle  which  has  no  rival  in  Europe  for  fecundity  and  beauty. 
The  Hollanders,  who  owe  so  much  to  them,  treat  them,  one 
may  say,  as  part  of  the  population;  they  wash  them,  comb 
them,  dress  them,  and  love  them  dearly.  They  are  to  be  seen 
everywhere;  they  are  reflected  in  all  the  canals,  and  dot  with 
points  of    black  and   white   the   immense   fields  that   stretch  on 


474 


EDMONDO   DE  AMICIS 


every  side,  giving  an  air  of  peace  and  comfort  to  every  place, 
and  exciting  in  the  spectator's  heart  a  sentiment  of  Arcadian  gen- 
tleness and  patriarchal  serenity.  The  Dutch  artists  studied  these 
animals  in  all  their  varieties,  in  all  their  habits,  and  divined,  as 
one  may  say,  their  inner  life  and  sentiments,  animating  the  tran- 
quil beauty  of  the  landscape  with  their  forms.  Rubens,  Luyders, 
Paul  de  Vos,  and  other  Belgian  painters,  had  drawn  animals  with 
admirable  mastery;  but  all  these  are  surpassed  by  the  Dutch 
artists  Van  der  Velde,  Berghem,  Karel  du  Jardin,  and  by  the 
prince  of  animal  painters,  Paul  Potter,  whose  famous  *^Bull,"  in 
the  gallery  of  the  Hague,  deserves  to  be  placed  in  the  Vatican 
beside  the  ^*  Transfiguration  '^  by  Raphael. 

In  yet  another  field  are  the  Dutch  painters  great,  —  the  sea. 
The  sea,  their  enemy,  their  power,  and  their  glory,  forever 
threatening  their  country,  and  entering  in  a  hundred  ways  into 
their  lives  and  fortunes;  that  turbulent  North  Sea,  full  of  sinistei 
color,  with  a  light  of  infinite  melancholy  upon  it,  beating  forever 
upon  a  desolate  coast,  must  subjugate  the  imagination  of  the 
artist.  He  passes,  indeed,  long  hours  on  the  shore,  contemplat- 
ing its  tremendous  beauty,  ventures  upon  its  waves  to  study  the 
effects  of  tempests,  buys  a  vessel  and  sails  with  his  wife  and 
family,  observing  and  making  notes,  follows  the  fleet  into  battle 
and  takes  part  in  the  fight;  and  in  this  way  are  made  marine 
painters  like  William  Van  der  Velde  the  elder  and  William  the 
younger,  like  Backhuysen,   Dubbels,  and  Stork. 

Another  kind  of  painting  was  to  arise  in  Holland,  as  the 
expression  of  the  character  of  the  people  and  of  republican 
manners.  A  people  which  without  greatness  had  done  so  many 
great  things,  as  Michelet  says,  must  have  its  heroic  painters,  if 
we  call  them  so,  destined  to  illustrate  men  and  events.  But  this 
school  of  painting, —  precisely  because  the  people  were  without 
greatness,  or  to  express  it  better,  without  the  form  of  great- 
ness,—  modest,  inclined  to  consider  all  equal  before  the  country, 
because  all  had  done  their  duty,  abhorring  adulation,  and  the 
glorification  in  one  only  of  the  virtues  and  the  triumph  of 
many, —  this  school  has  to  illustrate  not  a  few  men  who  have 
excelled,  and  a  few  extraordinary  facts,  but  all  classes  of  citizen- 
ship gathered  among  the  most  ordinary  and  pacific  of  burgher 
life.  From  this  come  the  great  pictures  which  represent  five, 
ten,  thirty  persons  together,  arquebusiers,  mayors,  officers,  pro- 
fessors, magistrates,  administrators;   seated  or  standing  around  a 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 


475 


table,  feasting  and  conversing;  of  life  size,  most  faithful  like- 
nesses; grave,  open  faces,  expressing  that  secure  serenity  of 
conscience  by  which  may  be  divined  rather  than  seen  the  noble- 
ness of  a  life  consecrated  to  one's  country,  the  character  of  that 
strong,  laborious  epoch,  the  masculine  virtues  of  that  excellent 
generation;  all  this  set  off  by  the  fine  costume  of  the  time,  so 
admirably  combining  grace  and  dignity, —  those  gorgets,  those 
doublets,  those  black  mantles,  those  silken  scarves  and  ribbons, 
those  arms  and  banners.  In  this  field  stand  pre-eminent  Van  der 
Heist,  Hals,  Govaert,  FHnk,  and  Bol. 

Descending  from  the  consideration  of  the  various  kinds  of 
painting,  to  the  special  manner  by  means  of  which  the  artist 
excelled  in  treatment,  one  leads  all  the  rest  as  the  distinctive 
feature  of  Dutch  painting  —  the  light. 

The  light  in  Holland,  by  reason  of  the  particular  conditions 
of  its  manifestation,  could  not  fail  to  give  rise  to  a  special  man- 
ner of  painting.  A  pale  light,  waving  with  marvelous  mobility 
through  an  atmosphere  impregnated  with  vapor,  a  nebulous  veil 
continually  and  abruptly  torn,  a  perpetual  struggle  between'  light 
and  shadow, —  such  was  the  spectacle  which  attracted  the  eye  of 
the  artist.  He  began  to  observe  and  to  reproduce  all  this  agita- 
tion of  the  heavens,  this  struggle  which  animates  with  varied  and 
fantastic  life  the  solitude  of  nature  in  Holland;  and  in  represent- 
ing it,  the  struggle  passed  into  his  soul,  and  instead  of  repre- 
senting he  created.  Then  he  caused  the  two  elements  to  contend 
under  his  hand;  he  accumulated  darkness  that  he  might  split  and 
seam  it  with  all  manner  of  luminous  effects  and  sudden  gleams 
of  light;  sunbeams  darted  through  the  rifts,  sunset  reflections 
and  the  yellow  rays  of  lamp-light  were  blended  with  delicate 
manipulation  into  mysterious  shadows,  and  their  dim  depths 
were  peopled  with  half-seen  forms;  and  thus  he  created  all  sorts 
of  contrasts,  enigmas,  play  and  effect  of  strange  and  unexpected 
chiaroscuro.  In  this  field,  among  many,  stand  conspicuous 
Gerard  Dow,  the  author  of  the  famous  four-candle  picture,  and 
the  great  magician  and  sovereign  illuminator  Rembrandt. 

Another  marked  feature  of  Dutch  painting  was  to  be  color. 
Besides  the  generally  accepted  reasons  that  in  a  country  where 
there  are  no  mountainous  horizons,  no  varied  prospects,  no  great 
coup  d'ceil, —  no  forms,  in  short,  that  lend  themselves  to  design, — 
the  artist's  eye  must  inevitably  be  attracted  by  color;  and  that 
this  might  be  peculiarly  the  case  in  Holland,  where  the  uncertain 


476 


EDMONDO   DE   AMICIS 


light,  the  fog-veiled  atmosphere,  confuse  and  blend  the  outlines 
of  all  objects,  so  that  the  eye,  unable  to  fix  itself  upon  the 
form,  flies  to  color  as  the  principal  attribute  that  nature  presents 
to  it, —  besides  these  reasons,  there  is  the  fact  that  in  a  country 
so  flat,  so  uniform,  and  so  gray  as  Holland,  there  is  the  same 
need  of  color  as  in  southern  lands  there  is  need  of  shade.  The 
Dutch  artists  did  but  follow  the  imperious  taste  of  their  country, 
men,  who  painted  their  houses  in  vivid  colors,  as  well  as  theii 
ships,  and  in  some  places  the  trunks  of  their  trees  and  the 
palings  and  fences  of  their  fields  and  gardens;  whose  dress  was 
of  the  gayest,  richest  hues;  who  loved  tulips  and  hyacinths  even 
to  madness.  And  thus  the  Dutch  painters  were  potent  colorists, 
and  Rembrandt  was  their  chief. 

Realism,  natural  to  the  calmness  and  slowness  of  the  Dutch 
character,  was  to  give  to  their  art  yet  another  distinctive  feature, 
—  finish,  which  was  carried  to  the  very  extreme  of  possibility.  It 
is  truly  said  that  the  leading  quality  of  the  people  may  be  found 
in  their  pictures;  viz.,  patience.  Everything  is  represented  with 
the  minuteness  of  a  daguerreotype;  every  vein  in  the  wood  of  a 
piece  of  furniture,  every  fibre  in  a  leaf,  the  threads  of  cloth,  the 
stitches  in  a  patch,  every  hair  upon  an  animal's  coat,  every 
wrinkle  in  a  man's  face;  everything  finished  with  microscopic  pre- 
cision, as  if  done  with  a  fairy  pencil,  or  at  the  expense  of  the 
painter's  eyes  and  reason.  In  reality  a  defect  rather  than  an 
excellence,  since  the  office  of  painting  is  to  represent  not  what  is, 
but  what  the  eye  sees,  and  the  eye  does  not  see  everything;  but 
a  defect  carried  to  such  a  pitch  of  perfection  that  one  admires, 
and  does  not  find  fault.  In  this  respect  the  most  famous  prodi- 
gies of  patience  were  Dow,  Mieris,  Potter,  and  Van  der  Heist, 
but  more  or  less  all  the  Dutch  painters. 

But  realism,  which  gives  to  Dutch  art  so  original  a  stamp  and 
such  admirable  qualities,  is  yet  the  root  of  its  most  serious  defects. 
The  artists,  desirous  only  of  representing  material  truths,  gave  to 
their  figures  no  expression  save  that  of  their  physical  sentiments. 
Grief,  love,  enthusiasm,  and  the  thousand  delicate  shades  of  feel- 
ing that  have  no  name,  or  take  a  different  one  with  the  different 
causes  that  give  rise  to  them,  they  express  rarely,  or  not  at  all. 
For  them  the  heart  does  not  beat,  the  eyes  do  not  weep,  the  lips 
do  not  quiver.  On«  whole  side  of  the  human  soul,  the  noblest 
and  highest,  is  wanting  in  their  pictures.  More:  in  their  faithful 
reproduction  of  everythmg,  even  the  ugly,  and  especially  the  ugly, 


EDMONDO  DE  AMICIS 


477 


they  end  by  exaggerating  even  that,  making  defects  into  deformi- 
ties and  portraits  into  caricatures;  they  calumniate  the  national 
type;  they  give  a  burlesque  and  graceless  aspect  to  the  human 
countenance.  In  order  to  have  the  proper  background  for  such 
figures,  they  are  constrained  to  choose  trivial  subjects:  hence  the 
great  number  of  pictures  representing  beer-shops,  and  drinkers 
with  grotesque,  stupid  faces,  in  absurd  attitudes;  ugly  women  and 
ridiculous  old  men;  scenes  in  which  one  can  almost  hear  the 
brutal  laughter  and  the  obscene  words.  Looking  at  these  pictures, 
one  would  naturally  conclude  that  Holland  was  inhabited  by  the 
ugliest  and  most  ill-mannered  people  on  the  earth.  We  will  not 
speak  of  greater  and  worse  license.  Steen,  Potter,  and  Brouwer, 
the  great  Rembrandt  himself,  have  all  painted  incidents  that  are 
scarcely  to  be  mentioned  to  civilized  ears,  and  certainly  should 
not  be  looked  at.  But  even  setting  aside  these  excesses,  in  the 
picture  galleries  of  Holland  there  is  to  be  found  nothing  that  ele- 
vates the  mind,  or  moves  it  to  high  and  gentle  thoughts.  You 
admire,  you  enjoy,  you  laugh,  you  stand  pensive  for  a  moment 
before  some  canvas;  but  coming  out,  you  feel  that  something  is 
lacking  to  your  pleasure,  you  experience  a  desire  to  look  upon  a 
handsome  countenance,  to  read  inspired  verses,  and  sometimes 
you  catch  yourself  murmuring,  half  unconsciously,  *  O  Raphael !  '* 
Finally,  there  are  still  two  important  excellences  to  be  recorded 
of  this  school  of  painting:  its  variety,  and  its  importance  as  the 
expression  —  the  mirror,  so  to  speak  —  of  the  country.  If  we 
except  Rembrandt  with  his  group  of  followers  and  imitators, 
almost  all  the  other  artists  differ  very  much  from  one  another; 
no  other  school  presents  so  great  a  number  of  original  masters. 
The  realism  of  the  Dutch  painters  is  bom  of  their  common  love 
of  nature:  but  each  one  has  shown  in  his  work  a  kind  of  love 
peculiarly  his  own;  each  one  has  rendered  a  different  impression 
which  he  has  received  from  nature;  and  all,  starting  from  the 
same  point,  which  was  the  worship  of  material  truth,  have  arrived 
at  separate  and  distinct  goals.  Their  realism,  then,  inciting  them 
to  disdain  nothing  as  food  for  the  pencil,  has  so  acted  that  Dutch 
art  succeeds  in  representing  Holland  more  completely  than  has 
ever  been  accomplished  by  any  other  school  in  any  other  country. 
It  has  been  truly  said  that  should  every  other  visible  witness  of 
the  existence  of  Holland  in  the  seventeenth  century  —  her  period 
of  greatness  —  vanish  from  the  earth,  and  the  pictures  remain,  in 
them  would  be  found  preserved  entirs  the  city,  the  country,  the 


478 


EDMONDO  DE   AMICIS 


ports,  the  ships,  the  markets,  the  shops,  the  costumes,  the  arms, 
the  linen,  the  stuffs,  the  merchandise,  the  kitchen  utensils,  the 
food,  the  pleasures,  the  habits,  the  religious  belief  and  supersti- 
tions, the  qualities  and  effects  of  the  people;  and  all  this,  which 
is  great  praise  for  literature,  is  no  less  praise  for  her  sister  art. 

But  there  is  one  great  hiatus  in  Dutch  art,  the  reason  for 
which  can  scarcely  be  found  in  the  pacific  and  modest  disposition 
of  the  people.  This  art,  so  profoundly  national  in  all  other  re- 
spects, has,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  naval  battles,  completely 
neglected  all  the  great  events  of  the  war  of  independence,  among 
which  the  sieges  of  Leyden  and  of  Haarlem  alone  would  have 
been  enough  to  inspire  a  whole  legion  of  painters.  A  war  of 
almost  a  century  in  duration,  full  of  strange  and  terrible  vicis- 
situdes, has  not  been  recorded  in  one  single  memorable  painting. 
Art,  so  varied  and  so  conscientious  in  its  records  of  the  country 
and  its  people,  has  represented  no  scene  of  that  great  tragedy,  as 
William  the  Silent  prophetically  named  it,  which  cost  the  Dutch 
people,  for  so  long  a  time,  so  many  different  emotions  of  terror, 
of  pain,  of  rage,  of  joy,  and  of  pride! 

The  splendor  of  art  in  Holland  is  dimmed  by  that  of  political 
greatness.  Almost  all  the  great  painters  were  born  in  the  first 
thirty  years  of  the  seventeenth  century,  or  in  the  last  part  of  the 
sixteenth ;  all  were  dead  after  the  first  ten  years  of  the  eighteenth, 
and  after  them  there  were  no  more, —  Holland  had  exhausted  her 
fecundity.  Already  towards  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century 
the  national  sentiment  had  grown  weaker,  taste  had  corrupted, 
the  inspiration  of  the  painters  had  declined  with  the  moral  ener- 
gies of  the  nation.  In  the  eighteenth  century,  the  artists,  as  if 
they  were  tired  of  nature,  went  back  to  mythology,  to  classicism, 
to  conventionalities;  the  imagination  grew  cold,  style  was  impov- 
erished, every  spark  of  the  antique  genius  was  extinct.  Dutch 
art  still  showed  to  the  world  the  wonderful  flowers  of  Van  Huy- 
sum,  the  last  great  lover  of  nature,  and  then  folded  her  tired 
hands  and  let  the  flowers  fall  upon  his  tomb. 


479 


HENRI  FREDERIC  AMIEL 
(1821-1881) 

BY  RICHARD  BURTON 

Ihe  French  have  long  been  writers  of  what  they  call  *  Pensees,  * 
—  those  detached  thoughts  or  meditations  which,  for  depth, 
illumination,  and  beauty,  have  a  power  of  life,  and  come 
under  the  term  "literature."  Their  language  lends  itself  to  the 
expression  of  subjective  ideas  with  lucidity,  brilliance,  charm.  The 
French  quality  of  mind  allows  that  expression  to  be  at  once  dignified 
and  happily  urbane.  Sometimes  these  sayings  take  the  fonn  of  the 
cynical  epigrams  of  a  La  Rochefoucauld;  are  expanded  into  senten- 
tious aphorisms  by  a  La  Bruyere;  or  reveal  more  earnest  and  athletic 
souls,  who  pierce  below  the  social  surface  froth  to  do  battle  with  the 
demons  of  the  intellect.  To  this  class  belong  men  like  the  seven- 
teenth-century Pascal  and  the  nineteenth-century  Amiel. 

The  career  of  Henri  Frederic  Amiel  illustrates  the  dubiety  of  too 
hasty  judgment  of  a  man's  place  or  power  in  the  world.  A  Gene- 
vese  by  birth,  of  good  parentage,  early  orphaned,  well  educated, 
much  traveled,  he  was  deemed,  on  his  return  in  the  spring-time  of 
his  manhood  to  his  native  town  as  professor  in  the  Academy  of 
Greneva,  to  be  a  youth  of  g^reat  promise,  destined  to  become  distin- 
gfuished.  But  the  years  slipped  by,  and  his  literary  performance, 
consisting  of  desultory  essays  and  several  slight  volumes  of  verse, 
was  not  enough  to  justify  the  prophecy.  His  life  more  and  more 
became  that  of  a  bachelor  recluse  and  valetudinarian.  When  he 
died,  in  188 1,  at  sixty  years  of  age,  after  much  suffering  heroically 
borne,  as  pathetic  entries  in  the  last  leaves  of  his  Diary  remain  to 
show,  there  was  a  feeling  that  here  was  "one  more  faithful  failure.* 
But  the  quiet,  brooding  teacher  in  the  Swiss  city  which  has  at  one 
time  or  another  immured  so  many  rare  minds,  had  for  years  been 
jotting  down  his  reflections  in  a  private  journal.  It  constitutes  the 
story  of  his  inner  life,  never  told  in  his  published  writings.  When  a 
volume  of  the  <  Journal  Intime*  appeared  the  year  after  his  taking 
off,  the  vvorld  recognized  in  it  not  only  an  intellect  of  clarity  and 
keenness,  and  a  heart  sensitive  to  the  widest  spiritual  problems,  but 
the  revelation  of  a  typical  modem  mood.  The  result  was  that  Amiel, 
being  dead,  yet  spoke  to  his  generation,  and  his  fame  was  quick  and 
genuine.     The  apparent  disadvantage  point  of  Geneva  proved,  after 


480  HENRI  FREDERIC  AMIEL 

all,  the  fittest  abiding-place  for  the  poet-philosopher.  A  second  vol- 
ume of  extracts,  two  years  later,  found  him  in  an  assured  place  as 
a  writer  of  <Pensees.* 

The  < Journal*  of  Amiel  is  symptomatic  of  his  time, — perhaps  one 
reason  why  it  met  with  so  sympathetic  a  response.  It  mirrors  the 
intellectual  doubtings,  the  spiritual  yearnings  and  despairs  of  a  stren- 
uous and  pure  soul  in  a  rationalistic  atmosphere.  In  the  day  of 
scientific  test  and  of  skepticism,  of  the  readjustment  of  conventions 
and  the  overthrow  of  sacrosanct  traditions,  one  whose  life  is  that  of 
thought  rather  than  of  action  finds  much  to  perplex,  to  weary,  and 
to  sadden.  So  it  was  with  the  Swiss  professor.  He  was  always  in 
the  sanctum  sanctorum  of  his  spirit,  striving  to  attain  the  truth;  with 
Hamlet-like  irresolution  he  poised  in  mind  before  the  antinomies 
of  the  universe,  alert  to  see  around  a  subject,  having  the  modern 
thinker's  inability  to  be  partisan.  This  way  of  thought  is  obviously 
unhealthy,  or  at  least  has  in  it  something  of  the  morbid.  It  implies 
the  undue  introspection  which  is  well-nigh  the  disease  of  this  cen- 
tury. There  is  in  it  the  failure  to  lose  one's  life  in  objective  inci- 
dent and  action,  that  one  may  find  it  again  in  regained  balance  of 
mind  and  bodily  health.  Amiel  had  the  defect  of  his  quality;  but 
he  is  clearly  to  be  separated  from  those  shallow  or  exaggerated  speci- 
mens of  subjectivity  illustrated  by  present-day  women  diarists,  like 
Bashkirtseff  and  Kovalevsky.  The  Swiss  poet-thinker  had  a  vigor  of 
thought  and  a  broad  culture;  his  aim  was  high,  his  deSire  pure,  and 
his  meditations  were  often  touched  with  imaginative  beauty.  Again 
and  again  he  flashes  light  into  the  darkest  penetralia  of  the  human 
soul.  At  times,  too,  there  is  in  him  a  mystic  fervor  worthy  of  St. 
Augustine.  If  his  dominant  tone  is  melancholy,  he  is  not  to  be 
called  a  pessimist.  He  believed  in  the  Good  at  the  central  core  of 
things.  Hence  is  he  a  fascinating  personality,  a  stimulative  force. 
And  these  outpourings  of  an  acute  intellect,  and  a  nature  sensitive  tc 
the  Ideal,  are  conveyed  in  a  diction  full  of  literary  feeling  and  flavor. 
Subtlety,  depth,  tenderness,  poetry,  succeed  each  other;  nor  are  the 
crisp,  compressed  sayings,  the  happy  mots  of  the  epigrammatist, 
entirely  lacking.     And  pervading  all    is  an   impression  of    character. 

Like  Pascal,  Amiel  was  a  thinker  interested  above  all  in  the  soul 
of  man.  He  was  a  psychologist,  seeking  to  know  the  secret  of  the 
Whence,  the  Why,  and  the  Whither.  Like  Joubert,  whose  journal 
resembled  his  own  in  its  posthumous  publication,  his  reflections  will 
live  by  their  weight,  their  quality,  their  beauty  of  form.  Nor  are 
these  earlier  writers  of  *  Pensees  *  likely  to  have  a  more  permanent 
place  among  the  seed-sowers  of  thought.  Amiel  himself  declared 
that  <*  the  pensee-writer  is  to  the  philosopher  what  the  dilettante  is 
to  the  artist.     He  plays  with  thought,  and  makes  it  produce  a  crowd 


HENRI   FREDfiRIC  AMIEL  ^g^ 

of  pretty  things  of  detail;  but  he  is  more  anxious  about  truths  than 
truth,  and  what  is  essential  in  thought,  its  sequence,  its  unity, 
escapes  him.  ...  In  a  word,  the  pensee-writer  deals  with  what 
is  superficial  and  fragmentary.  *>  While  these  words  show  the  fine 
critical  sense  of  the  man,  they  do  an  injustice  to  his  own  work. 
Fragmentary  it  is,  but  neither  superficial  nor  petty.  One  recognizes 
in  reading  his  wonderfully  suggestive  pages  that  here  is  a  rare  per- 
sonality, indeed, — albeit  <^  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 
In  1889  an  admirable  English  translation  of  Amiel  by  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward,  the  novelist,  appeared  in  London.  The  introductory 
essay  by  Mrs.  Ward  is  the  best  study  of  him  in  our  language.  The 
appended  selections  are  taken  from  the  Ward  translation. 


<^/T^C 


^ur^. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  AMIEL'S  JOURNAL 

OCTOBER  1ST,  1849. — Yesterday,  Sunday,  I  read  through  and 
made  extracts  from  the  Gospel  of  St.  John.  It  confirmed 
me  in  my  beHef  that  about  Jesus  we  must  believe  no  one 
but  Himself,  and  that  what  we  have  to  do  is  to  discover  the  true 
image  of  the  Founder  behind  all  the  prismatic  refractions  through 
which  it  comes  to  us,  and  which  alter  it  more  or  less.  A  ray  of 
heavenly  Hght  traversing  human  life,  the  message  of  Christ  has 
been  broken  into  a  thousand  rainbow  colors,  and  carried  in  a 
thousand  directions.  It  is  the  historical  task  of  Christianity  to 
assume  with  every  succeeding  age  a  fresh  metamorphosis,  and  to 
be  forever  spiritualizing  more  and  more  her  understanding  of  the 
Christ  and  of  salvation. 

I  am  astounded  at  the  incredible  amount  of  Judaism  and 
formalism  which  still  exists  nineteen  centuries  after  the  Redeem- 
er's proclamation,  **It  is  the  letter  which  killeth" — after  his  pro- 
test against  a  dead  symbolism.  The  new  religion  is  so  profound 
that  it  is  not  understood  even  now,  and  would  seem  a  blasphemy 
to  the  greater  number  of  Christians.  The  person  of  Christ  is  the 
centre  of  it.  Redemption,  eternal  life,  divinity,  humanity,  pro- 
pitiation, incarnation,  judgment,  Satan,  heaven  and  hell, —  all 
these  beliefs  have  been  so  materialized  and  coarsened  that  with  a 
strange  irony  they  present  to  us  the  spectacle  of  things  having  a 
I— 31 


482  HENRI  FREDfiRIC  AMIEL 

profound  meaning-  and  yet  carnally  interpreted.  Christian  bold-, 
ness  and  Christian  liberty  must  be  reconquered;  it  is  the  Church 
which  is  heretical,  the  Church  whose  sight  is  troubled  and  her 
heart  timid.  Whether  we  will  or  no,  there  is  an  esoteric  doc- 
trine—  there  is  a  relative  revelation;  each  man  enters  into  God  so 
much  as  God  enters  into  him;  or,  as  Angelus,  I  think,  said,  *The 
eye  by  which  I  see  God  is  the  same  eye  by  which  He  sees  me.** 

Duty  has  the  virtue  of  making  us  feel  the  reality  of  a  positive 
world  while  at  the  same  time  detaching  us  from  it. 

FEBRUARY  20TH,  1851. —  I  have  almost  finished  these  two  vol- 
umes of  [Joubert's]  *  Pensees  *  and  the  greater  part  of  the 
*  Correspondance. *  This  last  has  especially  charmed  me;  it 
is  remarkable  for  grace,  delicacy,  atticism,  and  precision.  The 
chapters  on  metaphysics  and  philosophy  are  the  most  insignificant. 
All  that  has  to  do  with  large  views,  with  the  whole  of  things,  is 
very  little  at  Joubert's  command:  he  has  no  philosophy  of  history, 
no  speculati^'e  intuition.  He  is  the  thinker  of  detail,  and  his 
proper  field  is  psychology  and  matters  of  taste.  In  this  sphere  of 
the  subtleties  and  delicacies  of  imagination  and  feeling,  within 
the  circle  of  personal  affections  and  preoccupations,  of  social  and 
educational  interests,  he  abounds  in  ingenuity  and  sagacity,  in 
fine  criticisms,  in  exquisite  touches.  It  is  like  a  bee  going  from 
flower  to  flower,  a  teasing,  plundering,  wayward  zephyr,  an 
seolian  harp,  a  ray  of  furtive  light  stealing  through  the  leaves. 
Taken  as  a  whole,  there  is  something  impalpable  and  immaterial 
about  him,  which  I  will  not  venture  to  call  effeminate,  but  which 
is  scarcely  manly.  He  wants  bone  and  body:  timid,  dreamy,  and 
clairvoyant,  he  hovers  far  above  reality.  He  is  rather  a  soul,  a 
breath,  than  a  man.  It  is  the  mind  of  a  woman  in  the  character 
of  a  child,  so  that  we  feel  for  him  less  admiration  than  tender- 
ness and  gratitude. 

NOVEMBER  loTH,  1852. —  How  much  havc  we  not  to  learn  from 
the  Greeks,  those  immortal  ancestors  of  ours!  And  how 
much  better  they  solved  their  problem  than  we  have  solved 
ours!  Their  ideal  man  is  not  ours;  but  they  understood  infinitely 
better  than  we,  how  to  reverence,  cultivate,  and  ennoble  the 
man  whom  they  knew.  In  a  thousand  respects  we  are  still  bar- 
barians beside  them,  as  B^ranger  said  to  me  with  a  sigh  in  184^; 
barbarians  in  education,  in  eloquetice^  m  -oublic  life,  in  poetry,  in 


HENRI  FRfiDfiRIC  AMIEL 


483 


matters  of  art,  etc.  We  must  have  millions  of  men  in  order  to 
produce  a  few  elect  spirits:  a  thousand  was  enough  in  Greece, 
If  the  measure  of  a  civilization  is  to  be  the  number  of  perfected 
men  that  it  produces,  we  are  still  far  from  this  model  people. 
The  slaves  are  no  longer  below  us,  but  they  are  among  us.  Bar- 
barism is  no  longer  at  our  frontiers:  it  lives  side  by  side  with 
us.  We  carry  within  us  much  greater  things  than  they,  but  we 
ourselves  are  smaller.  It  is  a  strange  result.  Objective  civiliza- 
tion produced  great  men  while  making  no  conscious  effort  toward 
such  a  result;  subjective  civilization  produces  a  miserable  and  im- 
perfect race,  contrary  to  its  mission  and  its  earnest  desire.  The 
world  grows  more  majestic,  but  man  diminishes.     Why  is  this  ? 

We  have  too  much  barbarian  blood  in  our  veins,  and  we  lack 
measure,  harmony,  and  grace.  Christianity,  in  breaking  man  up 
into  outer  and  inner,  the  world  into  earth  and  heaven,  hell  and 
paradise,  has  decomposed  the  human  unity,  in  order,  it  is  true,  to 
reconstruct  it  more  profoundly  and  more  truly.  But  Christianity 
has  not  yet  digested  this  powerful  leaven.  She  has  not  yet  con- 
quered the  true  humanity;  she  is  still  living  under  the  antinomy 
of  sin  and  grace,  of  here  below  and  there  above.  She  has  not 
penetrated  into  the  whole  heart  of  Jesus.  She  is  still  in  the  nar- 
thex  of  penitence;  she  is  not  reconciled,  and  even  the  churches 
still  wear  the  livery  of  service,  and  have  none  of  the  joy  of  the 
daughters  of  God,  baptized  of  the  Holy  Spirit. 

Then,  again,  there  is  our  excessive  division  of  labor;  our  bad 
and  foolish  education  which  does  not  develop  the  whole  man;  and 
the  problem  of  poverty.  We  have  abolished  slavery,  but  without 
having  solved  the  question  of  labor.  In  law,  there  are  no  more 
slaves  —  in  fact,  there  are  many.  And  while  the  majority  of  men 
are  not  free,  the  free  man,  in  the  true  sense  of  the  term,  can 
neither  be  conceived  nor  realized.  Here  are  enough  causes  for 
our  inferiority. 

NOVEMBER  I2TH,  1 85 2. — St.  Martiu's  summer  is  still  lingering, 
and  the  days  all  begin  in  mist.  I  ran  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  round  the  garden  to  get  some  warmth  and  suppleness. 
Nothing  could  be  lovelier  than  the  last  rosebuds,  or  the  delicate 
gaufred  edges  of  the  strawberry  leaves  embroidered  with  hoar- 
frost, while  above  them  Arachne's  delicate  webs  hung  swaying  in 
the  green  branches  of  the  pines, — little  ball-rooms  for  the  fairies, 
carpeted  with  powdered  pearls,  and  kept  in  place  by  a  thousand 


484  HENRI  FREDERIC   AMIEL 

dewy  strands,  hanging  from  above  like  the  chains  of  a  lamp,  and 
supporting  them  from  below  like  the  anchors  of  a  vessel.  These 
little  airy  edifices  had  all  the  fantastic  lightness  of  the  elf-world, 
and  all  the  vaporous  freshness  of  dawn.  They  recalled  to  me  the 
poetry  of  the  North,  wafting  to  me  a  breath  from  Caledonia  or 
Iceland  or  Sweden,  Frithjof  and  the  Edda,  Ossian  and  the  Heb- 
rides. All  that  world  of  cold  and  mist,  of  genius  and  of  reverie, 
where  warmth  comes  not  from  the  sun  but  from  the  heart,  where 
man  is  more  noticeable  than  nature,  —  that  chaste  and  vigorous 
world,  in  which  will  plays  a  greater  part  than  sensation,  and 
thought  has  more  power  than  instinct, — in  short,  the  whole  ro- 
mantic cycle  of  German  and  Northern  poetry,  awoke  little  by  little 
in  my  memory  and  laid  claim  upon  my  sympathy.  It  is  a  poetry 
of  bracing  quality,  and  acts  upon  one  like  a  moral  tonic.  Strange 
charm  of  imagination!  A  twig  of  pine-wood  and  a  few  spider- 
webs  are  enough  to  make  countries,  epochs,  and  nations  live  again 
before  her. 

JANUARY  6th,  1853.  —  Self-government  with  tenderness, — here 
you  have  the  condition  of  all  authority  over  children.  The 
child  must  discover  m  us  no  passion,  no  weakness  of  which 
he  can  make  use;  he  must  feel  himself  powerless  to  deceive  or  to 
trouble  us;  then  he  will  recognize  in  us  his  natural  superiors,  and 
he  will  attach  a  special  value  to  our  kindness,  because  he  will  re- 
spect it.  The  child  who  can  rouse  in  us  anger,  or  impatience,  or 
excitement,  feels  himself  stronger  than  we,  and  a  child  respects 
strength  only.  The  mother  should  consider  herself  as  her  child's 
sun,  a  changeless  and  ever  radiant  world,  whither  the  small  rest- 
less creature,  quick  at  tears  and  laughter,  light,  fickle,  passionate, 
full  of  storms,  may  come  for  fresh  stores  of  light,  warmth,  and 
electricity,  of  calm  and  of  courage.  The  mother  represents  good- 
ness, providence,  law;  that  is  to  say,  the  divinity,  under  that  form 
of  it  which  is  accessible  to  childhood.  If  she  is  herself  passionate, 
she  will  inculcate  in  her  child  a  capricious  and  despotic  God,  or 
even  several  discordant  gods.  The  religion  of  a  child  depends 
on  what  its  mother  and  its  father  are,  and  not  on  what  they 
say.  The  inner  and  unconscious  ideal  which  guides  their  life  is 
precisely  what  touches  the  child;  their  words,  their  remonstran- 
ces,  their  punishments,  their  bursts  of  feeling  even,  are  for  him 
merely  thunder  ana  comedy;  what  they  worship  —  this  it  is  which 
his  instinct  divines  and  reflects. 


HENRI   FREDERIC  AMIEL 


485 


The  child  sees  what  we  are,  behind  what  we  wish  to  be. 
Hence  his  reputation  as  a  physiognomist.  He  extends  his  power 
as  far  as  he  can  with  each  of  us;  he  is  the  most  subtle  of 
diplomatists.  Unconsciously  he  passes  under  the  influence  of  each 
person  about  him,  and  reflects  it  while  transforming  it  after  his 
own  nature.  He  is  a  magnifying  mirror.  This  is  why  the  first 
principle  of  education  is,  Train  yourself;  and  the  first  rule  to  fol- 
low, if  you  wish  to  possess  yourself  of  a  child's  will,  is,  Master 
your  own. 

MAY  27TH,  1857. —  Wagner's  is  a  powerful  mind  endowed  with 
strong  poetical  sensitiveness.  His  work  is  even  more  poet- 
ical than  musical.  The  suppression  of  the  lyrical  element, 
and  therefore  of  melody,  is  with  him  a  systematic  parti  pris. 
No  more  duos  or  trios;  monologue  and  the  aria  are  alike  done 
away  with.  There  remains  only  declamation,  the  recitative,  and 
the  choruses.  In  order  to  avoid  the  conventional  in  singing, 
Wagner  falls  into  another  convention, —  that  of  not  singing  at  all. 
He  subordinates  the  voice  to  articulate  speech,  and  for  fear  lest 
the  Muse  should  take  flight  he  clips  her  wings;  so  that  his  works 
are  rather  symphonic  dramas  than  operas.  The  voice  is  brought 
down  to  the  rank  of  an  instrument,  put  on  a  level  with  the 
violins,  the  hautboys,  and  the  drums,  and  treated  instrumentally. 
Man  is  deposed  from  his  superior  position,  and  the  centre  of 
gravity  of  the  work  passes  into  the  baton  of  the  conductor.  It 
is  music  depersonalized, —  neo-Hegelian  music, —  music  multiple 
instead  of  individual.  If  this  is  so,  it  is  indeed  the  music  of  the 
future, —  the  music  of  the  socialist  democracy  replacing  the  art 
which  is  aristocratic,  heroic,  or  subjective. 

DECEMBER  4TH,  1863. —  The  wholc  secret  of  remaining  young  in 
spite  of  years,  and  even  of  gray  hairs,  is  to  cherish  enthu- 
siasm in  one's  self,  by  poetry,  by  contemplation,  by  charity, 
—  that  is,  in  fewer  words,  by  the  maintenance  of  harmony  in  the 
soul. 

APRIL   I2TH,   1858. —  The  era  of  equality  means  the  triumph  of 
mediocrity.     It  is  disappointing,  but  inevitable;   for  it  is  one 
of  time's  revenges.      .     .      .     Art   no   doubt   will  lose,   but 
justice    will    gain.      Is   not    universal   leveling   down   the   law   of 
nature  ?     .     .     .     The  world  is  striving  with  all  its  force  for  the 
destruction  of  what  it  has  itself  brought  forth! 


486  HENRI  FR6d£RIC  AMIEL 

MARCH  1ST,  1869. — From  the  point  of  view  of  the  ideal, 
humanity  is  triste  and  ugly.  But  if  we  compare  it  with 
its  probable  origins,  we  see  that  the  human  race  has  not 
altogether  wasted  its  time.  Hence  there  are  three  possible  views 
of  history:  the  view  of  the  pessimist,  who  starts  from  the  ideal; 
the  view  of  the  optimist,  who  compares  the  past  with  the  pres- 
ent; and  the  view  of  the  hero-worshiper,  who  sees  that  all 
progress  whatever  has  cost  oceans  of  blood  and  tears. 

AUGUST  31ST,   1869. — I  have  finished  Schopenhauer.      My  mind 
has  been   a   tumult   of    opposing    systems,  —  Stoicism,    Qui- 
etism, Buddhism,  Christianity.      Shall  I  never  be  at  peace 
with  myself  ?      If  impersonality  is  a  good,  why  am  I  not  consist- 
ent in  the  pursuit  of  it  ?   and  if  it  is  a  temptation,  why  return  to 
it,  after  having  judged  and  conquered  it  ? 

Is  happiness  anything  more  than  a  conventional  fiction  ?  The 
deepest  reason  for  my  state  of  doubt  is  that  the  supreme  end  and 
aim  of  life  seems  to  me  a  mere  lure  and  deception.  The  indi- 
vidual is  an  eternal  dupe,  who  never  obtains  what  he  seeks,  and 
who  is  forever  deceived  by  hope.  My  instinct  is  in  harmony 
with  the  pessimism  of  Buddha  and  of  Schopenhauer.  It  is  a 
doubt  which  never  leaves  me,  even  in  my  moments  of  religious 
fervor.  Nature  is  indeed  for  me  a  Ma'ia;  and  I  look  at  her,  as  it 
were,  with  the  eyes  of  an  artist.  My  intelligence  remains  skep- 
tical. What,  then,  do  I  believe  in  ?  I  do  not  know.  And  what 
is  it  I  hope  for  ?  It  would  be  diiBcult  to  say.  Folly !  I  believe 
in  goodness,  and  I  hope  that  good  will  prevail.  Deep  within 
this  ironical  and  disappointed  being  of  mine  there  is  a  child  hid- 
den—  a  frank,  sad,  simple  creature,  who  believes  in  the  ideal,  in 
love,  in  holiness,  and  all  heavenly  superstitions.  A  whole  millen- 
nium of  idyls  sleeps  in  my  heart;  I  am  a  pseudo-skeptic,  a 
pseudo-scoffer. 

<<  Borne  dans  sa  nature,  infini  dans  ses  voeux, 
L'homme  est  un  dieu  tombe  qui  se  souvient  des  cieux.** 

MARCH  17TH,   1870.  —  This  morning  the  music  of  a  brass  band 
which   had   stopped   under  my  windows  moved  me  almost 
to  tears.     It  exercised  an  indefinable,  nostalgic  power  over 
me;   it  set  me  dreaming  of  another  world,  of  infinite  passion  and 
supreme  happiness.     Such  impressions  are  the  echoes  of  Paradise 


HENRI   FREDERIC   AMIEL  487 

in  the  soul;  memories  of  ideal  spheres  whose  sad  sweetness  rav- 
ishes and  intoxicates  the  heart.  O  Plato!  O  Pythagoras!  ages 
ago  you  heard  these  harmonies,  surprised  these  moments  of 
inward  ecstasy,  —  knew  these  divine  transports !  If  music  thus 
carries  us  to  heaven,  it  is  because  music  is  harmony,  harmony  is 
perfection,  perfection  is  our  dream,  and  our  dream  is  heaven. 

APRIL  1ST,  1870.  —  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  for  a  woman 
love  is  the  supreme  authority, — that  which  judges  the  rest 
and  decides  what  is  good  or  evil.  For  a  man,  love  is  sub- 
ordinate to  right.  It  is  a  great  passion,  but  it  is  not  the  source 
of  order,  the  synonym  of  reason,  the  criterion  of  excellence.  It 
would  seem,  then,  that  a  woman  places  her  ideal  in  the  perfec- 
tion of  love,  and  a  man  in  the  perfection  of  justice. 

JUNE  5TH,  1870. — The  efficacy  of  religion  lies  precisely  in  that 
which  is  not  rational,  philosophic,  nor  eternal;  its  efficacy 
lies  in  the  unforeseen,  the  miraculous,  the  extraordinary. 
Thus  religion  attracts  more  devotion  in  proportion  as  it  demands 
more  faith, — that  is  to  say,  as  it  becomes  more  incredible  to  the 
profane  mind.  The  philosopher  aspires  to  explain  away  all  mys- 
teries, to  dissolve  them  into  light.  It  is  mystery,  on  the  other 
hand,  which  the  religious  instinct  demands  and  pursues:  it  is 
mystery  which  constitutes  the  essence  of  worship,  the  power  of 
proselytism.  When  the  cross  became  the  *^  foolishness  *  of  the 
cross,  it  took  possession  of  the  masses.  And  in  our  own  day, 
those  who  wish  to  get  rid  of  the  supernatural,  to  enlighten 
religion,  to  economize  faith,  find  themselves  deserted,  like  poets 
who  should  declaim  against  poetry,  or  women  who  should  decry 
love.  Faith  consists  in  the  acceptance  of  the  incomprehensible, 
and  even  in  the  pursuit  of  the  impossible,  and  is  self -intoxicated 
with  its  own  sacrifices,  its  own  repeated  extravagances. 

It  is  the  forgetfulness  of  this  psychological  law  which  stulti- 
fies the  so-called  liberal  Christianity.  It  is  the  realization  of  it 
which  constitutes  the  strength  of  Catholicism. 

Apparently,  no  positive  religion  can  survive  the  supernatural 
element  which  is  the  reason  for  its  existence.  Natural  religion 
seems  to  be  the  tomb  of  all  historic  cults.  All  concrete  religions 
die  eventually  in  the  pure  air  of  philosophy.  So  long  then  as 
the  life  of  nations  is  in  need  of  religion  as  a  motive  and  sanc- 
tion  of   morality,  as  food  for  faith,   hope,   and    charity,  so   long 


488  HENRI  FREDERIC  AMIEL 

will  the  masses  turn  away  from  pure  reason  and  naked  truth, 
so  long  will  they  adore  mystery,  so  long — and  rightly  so  — 
will  they  rest  in  faith,  the  only  region  where  the  ideal  presents 
itself  to  them  in  an  attractive  form, 

OCTOBER  26th,  1870, —  If  ignorauce  and  passion  are  the  foes 
of  popular  morality,  it  must  be  confessed  that  moral  indif- 
ference is  the  malady  of  the  cultivated  classes.  The  mod- 
em separation  of  enlightenment  and  virtue,  of  thought  and 
conscience,  of  the  intellectual  aristocracy  from  the  honest  and 
vulgar  crowd,  is  the  greatest  danger  that  can  threaten  liberty. 
When  any  society  produces  an  increasing  number  of  literary 
exquisites,  of  satirists,  skeptics,  and  beaux  esprits,  some  chemical 
disorganization  of  fabric  may  be  inferred.  Take,  for  example, 
the  century  of  Augustus  and  that  of  Louis  XV.  Our  cynics  and 
railers  are  mere  egotists,  who  stand  aloof  from  the  common 
duty,  and  in  their  indolent  remoteness  are  of  no  service  to 
society  against  any  ill  which  may  attack  it.  Their  cultivation 
consists  in  having  got  rid  of  feeling.  And  thus  they  fall  farther 
and  farther  away  from  true  humanity,  and  approach  nearer  to 
the  demoniacal  nature.  What  was  it  that  Mephistopheles  lacked  1 
Not  intelligence,  certainly,  but  goodness. 

DECEMBER  11 TH,  1872. —  The  ideal  which  the  wife  and  mother 
makes  for  herself,  the  manner  in  which  she  understands 
duty  and  life,  contain  the  fate  of  the  community.  Her 
faith  becomes  the  star  of  the  conjugal  ship,  and  her  love  the 
animating  principle  that  fashions  the  future  of  all  belonging  to 
her.  Woman  is  the  salvation  or  destruction  of  the  family.  She 
carries  its  destinies  in  the  folds  of  her  mantle. 

JANUARY  22D,  1875. —  The  thirst  for  truth  is  not  a  French 
passion.  In  everything  appearance  is  preferred  to  reality, 
the  outside  to  the  inside,  the  fashion  to  the  material,  that 
which  shines  to  that  which  profits,  opinion  to  conscience.  That 
is  to  say,  the  Frenchman's  centre  of  gravity  is  always  outside 
him, —  he  is  always  thinking  of  others,  playing  to  the  gallery. 
To  him  individuals  are  so  many  zeros:  the  unit  which  turns 
them  into  a  number  must  be  added  from  outside;  it  may  be 
royalty,  the  writer  of  the  day,  the  favorite  newspaper,  or  any 
other    temporary    master    of   fashion. — All   this   is  .probably   the 


HENRI   FREDERIC   AMIEL,  489 

result  of  an  exaggerated  sociability,  which  weakens  the  soul's 
forces  of  resistance,  destroys  its  capacity  for  investigation  and 
iDersonal  conviction,  and  kills  in  it  the  worship  of  the  ideal. 

DECEMBER  9TH,  1877. — The  modem  haunters  of  Parnassus 
carve  urns  of  agate  and  of  onyx;  but  inside  the  urns  what 
is  there  ?  —  Ashes.  Their  work  lacks  feeling,  seriousness, 
sincerity,  and  pathos — in  a  word,  soul  and  moral  life.  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  sympathize  with  such  a  way  of  understanding 
poetry.  The  talent  shown  is  astonishing,  but  stuff  and  matter 
are  wanting.  It  is  an  effort  of  the  imagination  to  stand  alone  — 
a  substitute  for  everything  else.  We  find  metaphors,  rhymes, 
music,  color,  but  not  man,  not  humanity.  Poetry  of  this  facti- 
tious kind  may  beguile  one  at  twenty,  but  what  can  one  make 
of  it  at  fifty  ?  It  rerrfinds  me  of  Pergamos,  of  Alexandria,  of  all 
the  epochs  of  decadence  when  beauty  of  form  hid  poverty  of 
thought  and  exhaustion  of  feeling.  I  strongly  share  the  repug- 
nance which  this  poetical  school  arouses  in  simple  people.  It  is 
as  though  it  only  cared  to  please  the  world-worn,  the  over-subtle, 
the  corrupted,  while  it  ignores  all  normal  healthy  life,  virtuous 
habits,  pure  affections,  steady  labor,  honesty,  and  duty.  It  is  an 
affectation,  and  because  it  is  an  affectation  the  school  is  struck 
with  sterility.  The  reader  desires  in  the  poem  something  better 
than  a  juggler  in  rhyme,  or  a  conjurer  in  verse;  he  looks  to  find 
in  him  a  painter  of  life,  a  being  who  thinks,  loves,  and  has  a 
conscience,  who  feels  passion  and  repentance. 

The  true  critic  strives  for  a  clear  vision  of  things  as  they  are 
—  for  justice  and  fairness;  his  effort  is  to  get  free  from  himself, 
so  that  he  may  in  no  way  disfigure  that  which  he  wishes  to 
understand  or  reproduce.  His  superiority  to  the  common  herd 
lies  in  this  effort,  even  when  its  success  is  only  partial.  He  dis- 
trusts his  own  senses,  he  sifts  his  own  impressions,  by  returning 
upon  them  from  different  sides  and  at  different  times,  by  com- 
paring, moderating,  shading,  distinguishing,  and  so  endeavoring 
to  approach  more  and  more  nearly  to  the  formula  which  repre- 
sents the  maximum  of  truth. 

The  art  which  is  grand  and  yet  simple  is  that  which  presup- 
poses the  greatest  elevation  both  in  artist  and.  in  public. 


.QQ  HENRI  FREDERIC  AMIEL 

MAY  19TH,  1878.  —  Criticism  is  above  all  a  gift,  an  intuition,  a 
matter  of  tact  and  flair;  it  cannot  be  taught  or  demon- 
strated,—  it  is  an  art.  Critical  genius  means  an  aptitude 
for  discerning  truth  under  appearances  or  in  disgnises  which  con- 
ceal it;  for  discovering  it  in  spite  of  the  errors  of  testimony,  the 
frauds  of  tradition,  the  dust  of  time,  the  loss  or  alteration  of 
texts.  It  is  the  sagacity  of  the  hunter  whom  nothing  deceives 
for  long,  and  whom  no  ruse  can  throw  off  the  trail.  It  is  the 
talent  of  the  Juge  d' Instruction  who  knows  how  to  interrogate 
circumstances,  and  to  extract  an  unknown  secret  from  a  thousand 
falsehoods.  The  true  critic  can  understand  everything,  but  he 
will  be  the  dupe  of  nothing,  and  to  no  convention  will  he  sacrifice 
his  duty,  which  .is  to  find  out  and  proclaim  truth.  Competent 
learning,  general  cultivation,  absolute  probity,  accuracy  of  general 
view,  human  sympathy,  and  technical  capacity, — how  many  things 
are  necessary  to  the  critic,  without  reckoning  grace,  delicacy, 
savoir  vivre,  and  the  gift  of  happy  phrasemaking ! 

MAY  22D,  1879  (Ascension  Day). — Wonderful  and  delicious 
weather.  Soft,  caressing  sunlight, —  the  air  a  limpid  blue, — ■ 
twitterings  of  birds;  even  the  distant  voices  of  the  city 
have  something  young  and  springlike  in  them.  It  is  indeed  a 
new  birth.  The  ascension  of  the  Savior  of  men  is  symbolized 
by  the  expansion,  this  heavenward  yearning  of  nature.  ...  I 
feel  myself  bom  again;  all  the  windows  of  the  soul  are  clear. 
Forms,  lines,  tints,  reflections,  sounds,  contrasts,  and  harmonies, 
the  general  play  and  interchange  of  things, — it  is  all  enchanting! 

In  my  court-yard  the  ivy  is  green  again,  the  chestnut-tree  is 
full  of  leaf,  the  Persian  lilac  beside  the  little  fountain  is  flushed 
with  red  and  just  about  to  flower;  through  the  wide  openings  to 
the  right  and  left  of  the  old  College  of  Calvin  I  see  the  Saleve 
above  the  trees  of  St.  Antoine,  the  Voirons  above  the  hill  of 
Cologny;  while  the  three  flights  of  steps  which,  from  landing  to 
landing,  lead  between  two  high  walls  from  the  Rue  Verdaine  to 
the  terrace  of  the  Tranch6es,  recall  to  one's  imagination  some  oid 
city  of  the  south,  a  glimpse  of  Perugia  or  of  Malaga. 

All  the  bells  are  ringing.  It  is  the  hour  of  worship.  A  his- 
torical and  religious  impression  mingles  with  the  picturesque,  the 
musical,  the  poetical  impressions  of  the  scene.  All  the  peoples 
of  Christendom  —  all  the  churches  scattered  over  the  globe  —  are 
celebrating  at  this  moment  the  glory  of  the  Crucified. 


HENRI  FREDERIC  AMIEL  491 

And  what  are  those  many  nations  doing  who  have  other 
prophets,  and  honor  the  Divinity  in  other  ways  —  the  Jews,  the 
Mussulmans,  the  Buddhists,  the  Vishnuists,  the  Guebers  ?  They 
have  other  sacred  days,  other  rites,  other  solemnities,  other  beliefs. 
But  all  have  some  religion,  some  ideal  end  for  life  —  all  aim  at 
raising  man  above  the  sorrows  and  smallnesses  of  the  present, 
and  of  the  individual  existence.  All  have  faith  in  'something 
greater  than  themselves,  all  pray,  all  bow,  all  adore;  all  see 
beyond  nature,  Spirit,  and  beyond  evil.  Good.  All  bear  witness 
to  the  Invisible.  Here  we  have  the  link  which  binds  all  peoples 
together.  All  men  are  equally  creatures  of  sorrow  and  desire, 
of  hope  and  fear.  All  long  to  recover  some  lost  harmony  with 
the  great  order  of  things,  and  to  feel  themselves  approved  and 
blessed  by  the  Author  of  the  universe.  All  know  what  suffering 
is,  and  yearn  for  happiness.  All  know  what  sin  is,  and  feel  the 
need  of  pardon. 

Christianity,  reduced  to  its  original  simplicity,  is  the  reconcili- 
ation of  the  sinner  with  God,  by  means  of  the  certainty  that  God 
loves  in  spite  of  everything,  and  that  he  chastises  because  he 
loves.  Christianity  furnished  a  new  motive  and  a  new  strength 
for  the  achievement  of  moral  perfection.  It  made  holiness  attract- 
ive by  giving  to  it  the  air  of  filial  gratitude. 

JULY  28th,  1880. — This  afternoon  I  have  had  a  walk  in  the 
sunshine,  and  have  just  come  back  rejoicing  in  a  renewed 
communion  with  nature.  The  waters  of  the  Rhone  and  the 
Arve,  the  murmur  of  the  river,  the  austerity  of  its  banks,  the 
brilliancy  of  the  foliage,  the  play  of  the  leaves,  the  splendoi  of 
the  July  sunlight,  the  rich  fertility  of  the  fields,  the  lucidity  of 
the  distant  mountains,  the  whiteness  of  the  glaciers  under  the 
azure  serenity  of  the  sky,  the  sparkle  and  foam  of  the  mingling 
rivers,  the  leafy  masses  of  the  La  Batie  woods,  —  all  and  every- 
thing delighted  me.  It  seemed  to  me  as  though  the  years  of 
streng^  had  come  back  to  me.  I  was  overwhelmed  with  sensa- 
tions. I  was  surprised  and  grateful.  The  universal  life  carried 
me  on  its  breast;  the  summer's  caress  went  to  my  heart.  Once 
more  my  eyes  beheld  the  vast  horizons,  the  soaring  peaks,  the 
blue  lakes,  the  winding  valleys,  and  all  the  free  outlets  of  old 
days.  And  yet  there  was  no  painful  sense  of  longing.  The 
scene  left  upon  me  an  indefinable  impression,  which  was  neither 
hope,  nor  desire,  nor  regret,   but  rather  a  sense   of  emotion,  of 


492 


ANACREON 


passionate  impulse,  mingled  with  admiration  and  anxiety.  I  am 
conscious  at  once  of  joy  and  of  want;  beyond  what  I  possess 
I  see  the  impossible  and  the  unattainable;  I  gauge  my  own 
wealth  and  poverty:  in  a  word,  I  am  and  I  am  not  —  my  inner 
state  is  one  of  contradiction,  because  it  is  one  of  transition. 

APRIL  loTH,   1881  [he  died  May  nth]. — What  dupes  we  are  of 
our  own  desires!     .     .     .     Destiny  has  two  ways  of  crush- 
ing  us  —  by   refusing    our    wishes    and    by    fulfilling    them. 
But  he  who  only  wills  what  God  wills  escapes  both  catastrophes. 
**A11  things  work  together  for  his  good.'* 


ANACREON 

(B.C.   562?-477) 

5F  THE  life  of  this  lyric  poet  we  have  little  exact  knowledge. 
We  know  that  he  was  an  Ionian  Greek,  and  therefore  by 
racial  type  a  luxury-loving,  music-loving  Greek,  born  in  the 
city  of  Teos  on  the  coast  of  Asia  Minor.  The  year  was  probably 
B.  C.  562.  With  a  few  fellow-citizens,  it  is  supposed  that  he  fled  to 
Thrace  and  founded  Abdera  when  Cyrus  the  Great,  or  his  general 
Harpagus,  was  conquering  the  Greek  cities  of  the  coast.  Abdera, 
however,    was   too   new   to   afford   luxurious   living,    and   the    singing 

Ionian  soon  found  his  way  to  more  genial 
Samos,  whither  the  fortunes  of  the  world 
then  seemed  converging.  Polycrates  was 
^Hyrant,'*  in  the  old  Greek  sense  of  irre- 
sponsible ruler;  but  withal  so  large-minded 
and  far-sighted  a  man  that  we  may  use  a 
trite  comparison  and  say  that  under  him 
his  island  was,  to  the  rest  of  Greece,  as 
Florence  in  the  time  of  Lorenzo  the  Mag- 
nificent was  to  the  rest  of  Italy,  or  Athens 
in  the  time  of  Pericles  to  the  other  Hellenic 
States.  Anacreon  became  his  tutor,  and 
may  have  been  of  his  council ;  for  Herodo- 
tus says  that  when  Oroetes  went  to  see 
Polycrates  he  found  him  in  the  men's  apartment  with  Anacreon  the 
Teian.  Another  historian  says  that  he  tempered  the  stern  will  of 
the  ruler.  Still  another  relates  that  Polycrates  once  presented  him 
with  five  talents,  but  that  the  poet  returned  the  sum  after  two  nights 


Anacreon 


ANACREON  493 

made  sleepless  from  thinking  what  he  would  do  with  his  riches,  say- 
ing <<it  was  not  worth  the  care  it  cost.** 

After  the  murder  of  Polycrates,  Hipparchus,  who  ruled  at  Athens, 
sent  a  trireme  to  fetch  the  poet.  Like  his  father  Pisistratus,  Hip- 
parchus endeavored  to  further  the  cause  of  letters  by  calling  poets  to 
his  court.  Simonides  of  Ceos  was  there;  and  Lasus  of  Hermione,  the 
teacher  of  Pindar;  with  many  rhapsodists  or  minstrels,  who  edited 
the  poems  of  Homer  and  chanted  his  lays  at  the  Panathengea,  or  high 
festival  of  Athena,  which  the  people  celebrated  every  year  with  de- 
vout and  magnificent  show.  Amid  this  brilliant  company  Anacreon 
lived  and  sang  until  Hipparchus  fell  (514)  by  the  famous  conspiracy 
of  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton.  He  then  returned  to  his  native 
Teos,  and  according  to  a  legend,  died  there  at  the  age  of  eighty- 
five,  choked  by  a  grape-seed. 

Anacreon  was  a  lyrist  of  the  first  order.  Plato's  poet  says  of  him 
in  the  < Symposium,*  ^<When  I  hear  the  verses  of  Sappho  or  Anacreon, 
I  set  down  my  cup  for  very  shame  of  my  own  performance.*  He 
composed  in  Greek  somewhat^  to  use  a  very  free  comparison,  as  Her- 
rick  did  in  English,  expressing  the  unrefined  passion  and  excesses 
which  he  saw,  just  as  the  Devonshire  parson  preserved  the  spirit  of 
the  country  festivals  of  Old  England  in  his  vivid  verse. 

To  Anacreon  music  and  poetry  were  inseparable.  The  poet  of  his 
time  recited  his  lines  with  lyre  in  hand,  striking  upon  it  in  the 
measure  he  thought  best  suited  to  his  song.  Doubtless  the  poems  of 
Anacreon  were  delivered  in  this  way.  His  themes  were  simple,  — 
wine,  love,  and  the  glorification  of  youth  and  poetry;  but  his  imagin- 
ation and  poetic  invention  so  animated  every  theme  that  it  is  the 
perfect  rendering  which  we  see,  not  the  simplicity  of  the  common- 
place idea.  His  delicacy  preserves  him  from  grossness,  and  his  grace 
from  wantonness.  In  this  respect  his  poems  are  a  fair  illustration  of 
the  Greek  sense  of  self-limitation,  which  guided  the  art  instincts  of 
that  people  and  made  them  the  creators  of  permanent  canons  of 
taste. 

Anacreon  had  no  politics,  no  earnest  interest  in  the  affairs  of  life, 
no  morals  in  the  large  meaning  of  that  word,  no  aims  reaching 
further  than  the  merriment  and  grace  of  the  moment.  Loving  luxury 
and  leisure,  he  was  the  follower  of  a  pleasure-loving  court.  His  cares 
are  that  the  bowl  is  empty,  that  age  is  joyless,  that  women  tell  him 
he  is  growing  gray.  He  is  closely  paralleled  in  this  by  one  side  of 
Beranger;  but  the  Frenchman's  soul  had  a  passionately  earnest  half 
which  the  Greek  entirely  lacked.  Nor  is  there  ever  any  outbreak 
of  the  deep  yearning,  the  underlying  melancholy,  which  pervades 
and  now  and  then  interrupts,  like  a  skeleton  at  the  feast,  the  gayest 
verses  of  Omar  Khayyam. 


494 


ANACREON 


His  metres,  like  his  matter,  are  simple  and  easy.  So  imitators, 
perhaps  as  brilliant  as  the  master,  have  sprung  up  and  produced  a 
mass  of  songs;  and  at  this  time  it  remains  in  doubt  whether  any 
complete  poem  of  Anacreon  remains  untouched.  For  this  reason  the 
collection  is  commonly  termed  < Anacreontics.*  Some  of  the  poems 
are  referred  to  the  school  of  Gaza  and  the  fourth  century  after 
Christ,  and  some  to  the  secular  teachings  and  refinement  of  the 
monks  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Since  the  discovery  and  publication  of 
the  text  by  Henry  Stephens,  in  1554,  poets  have  indulged  their  lighter 
fancies  in  such  songs,  and  a  small  literature  of  delicate  trifles  now 
exists  under  the  name  of  *  Anacreontics  *  in  Italian,  German,  and 
English.  Bergk's  recension  of  the  poems  appeared  in  1878.  The 
standard  translations,  or  rather  imitations  in  English,  are  those  of 
Cowley  and  Moore.  The  Irish  poet  was  not  unlike  in  nature  to  the 
ancient  Ionian.  Moore's  fine  voice  in  the  London  drawing-rooms 
echoes  at  times  the  note  of  Anacreon  in  the  men's  quarters  of  Po- 
lycrates  or  the  symposia  of  Hipparchus.  The  joy  of  feasting  and 
music,  the  color  of  wine,  and  the  scent  of  roses,  alike  inspire  the 
songs  of  each. 


DRINKING 

THE  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain, 
And  drinks,  and  gapes  for  drink  again. 
The  plants  suck  in  the  earth,  and  are 
With  constant  drinking  fresh  and  fair; 
The  sea  itself  (which  one  would  think 
Should  have  but  little  need  of  drink) 
Drinks  twice  ten  thousand  rivers  up. 
So  filled  that  they  o'erflow  the  cup. 
The  busy  Sun  (and  one  would  guess 
By  's  drunken  fiery  face  no  less) 
Drinks  up  the  sea,  and,  when  he's  done, 
The  Moon  and  Stars  drink  up  the  Sun: 
They  drink  and  dance  by  their  own  light  ; 
They  drink  and  revel  all  the  night. 
Nothing  in  nature's  sober  found. 
But  an  eternal  health  goes  round. 
Fill  up  the  bowl  then,  fill  it  high. 
Fill  all  the  glasses  there;   for  why 
Should  every  creature  drink  but  I  ? 
Why,  man  of  morals,  tell  me  why? 

Cowley's  Translation. 


ANACREON 


AGE 


495 


OFT  am  I  by  the  women  told. 
Poor  Anacreon,  thou  grow'st  old! 
Look  how  thy  hairs  are  falling  all; 
Poor  Anacreon,  how  they  fall! 
Whether  I  grow  old  or  no. 
By  th'  effects  I  do  not  know; 
This  I  know,  without  being  told, 
'Tis  time  to  live,  if  I  grow  old; 
'Tis  time  short  pleasures  now  to  take. 
Of  little  life  the  best  to  make, 
And  manage  wisely  the  last  stake. 

Cowley's  Translation. 


THE   EPICURE 


FILL  the  bowl  with  rosy  wine! 
Around  our  temples  roses  twine! 
And  let  us  cheerfully  awhile, 
Like  the  wine  and  roses,  smile. 
Crowned  with  roses,  we  contemn 
Gyges'  wealthy  diadem. 
To-day  is  ours,  what  do  we  fear.? 
To-day  is  ours;  we  have  it  here: 
Let's  treat  it  kindly,  that  it  may 
Wish,  at  least,  with  us  to  stay. 
Let's  banish  business,  banish  sorrow; 
To  the  gods  belongs  to-morrow. 

II 

UNDERNEATH  this  myrtle  shade. 
On  flowery  beds  supinely  laid, 
With  odorous  oils  my  head  o'erflowing 
And  around  it  roses  growing, 
What  should  I  do  but  drink  away 
The  heat  and  troubles  of  the  day? 
In  this  more  than  kingly  state 
Love  himself  shall  on  me  wait. 
Fill  to  me,  Love,  nay  fill  it  up: 
And,  mingled,  cast  into  the  cup 


496  ANACREON 


Wit,  and  mirth,  and  noble  fires, 
Vigorous  health,  and  gay  desires. 
The  wheel  of  life  no  less  will  stay- 
in  a  smooth  than  rugged  way: 
Since  it  equally  doth  flee. 
Let  the  motion  pleasant  be. 
Why  do  we  precious  ointments  show'r? 
Noble  wines  why  do  we  pour? 
Beauteous  flowers  why  do  we  spread, 
Upon  the  monuments  of  the  dead  ? 
Nothing  they  but  dust  can  show, 
Or  bones  that  hasten  to  be  so. 
Crown  me  with  roses  while  I  live. 
Now  your  wines  and  ointments  give 
After  death  I  nothing  crave; 
Let  me  alive  my  pleasures  have. 

All  are  Stoics  in  the  grave. 

Cowley's  Translation. 


GOLD 

A  MIGHTY  pain  to  love  it  is. 
And  'tis  a  pain  that  pain  to  miss; 
But,  of  all  pains,  the  greatest  pain 
It  is  to  love,  but  love  in  vain. 
Virtue  now,  nor  noble  blood. 
Nor  wit  by  love  is  understood; 
Gold  alone  does  passion  move, 
Gold  monopolizes  love; 
A  curse  on  her,  and  on  the  man 
Who  this  traffic  first  began! 
A  curse  on  him  who  found  the  ore! 
A  curse  on  him  who  digged  the  store  I 
A  curse  on  him  who  did  refine  it! 
A  curse  on  him  who  first  did  coin  it! 
A  curse,  all  curses  else  above. 
On  him  who  used  it  first  in  love! 
Gold  begets  in  brethren  hate; 
Gold  in  families  debate; 
Gold  does  friendship  separate; 
Gold  does  civil  wars  create. 
These  the  smallest  harms  of  it! 
Gold,  alas!  does  love  beget. 

Cowley's  Translation. 


ANACREON  497 

THE   GRASSHOPPER 

HAPPY  Insect!  what  can  be 
In  happiness  compared  to  thee? 
Fed  with  nourishment  divine. 
The  dewy  Morning's  gentle  wineh 
Nature  waits  upon  thee  still. 
And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill; 
'Tis  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 
Nature's  self's  thy  Ganymede. 
Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing; 
Happier  than  the  happiest  king! 
All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 
All  the  plants,  belong  to  thee; 
All  that  summer  hours  produce. 
Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 
Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plow; 
Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou! 
Thou  dost  innocently  joy; 
Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy; 
The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee. 
More  harmonious  than  he. 
Thee  country  hinds  with  gladness  hear. 
Prophet  of  the  ripened  year! 
Thee  Phoebus  loves,  and  does  inspire; 
Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 
To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  Earth, 
Life's  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 
Happy  insect,  happy  thou! 
Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know; 
But,  when  thou'st  drunk,  and  danced,  and  sung 
Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among, 
(Voluptuous,  and  wise  withal. 
Epicurean  animal!) 
Sated  with  thy  summer  feast. 

Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 

Cowley's  Translation. 

THE    SWALLOW 

FOOLISH  prater,  what  dost  thou 
So  early  at  my  window  do. 
With  thy  tuneless  serenade.^ 
Well  't  had  been  had  Tereus  made 
Thee  as  dumb  as  Philomel; 
There  his  knife  had  done  but  well. 


-32 


ANACREON 

In  thy  undiscovered  nest 

Thou  dost  all  the  winter  rest, 

And  dreamest  o'er  thy  summer  joys, 

Free  from  the  stormy  season's  noise; 

Free  from  th'  ill  thou'st  done  to  me; 

Who  disturbs  or  seeks  out  thee  ? 

Hadst  thou  all  the  charming  notes 

Of  the  wood's  poetic  throats, 

All  thou  art  could  never  pay 

What  thou  hast  ta'en  from  me  away. 

Cruel  bird!  thou'st  ta'en  away 

A  dream  out  of  my  arms  to-day; 

A  dream  that  ne'er  must  equaled  be 

By  all  that  waking  eyes  may  see. 

Thou,  this  damage  to  repair. 

Nothing  half  so  sweet  or  fair. 

Nothing  half  so  good,  canst  bring, 

Though  men  say  thou  bring'st  the  Spring. 

Cowley's  Translation 

THE  POET'S  CHOICE 

IF  HOARDED  gold  possessed  a  power 
To  lengthen  life's  too  fleeting  hour. 
And  purchase  from  the  hand  of  death 
A  little  span,  a  moment's  breath. 
How  I  would  love  the  precious  ore! 
And  every  day  should  swell  my  store; 
That  when  the  fates  would  send  their  minion, 
To  waft  me  off  on  shadowy  pinion, 
I  might  some  hours  of  life  obtain. 
And  bribe  him  back  to  hell  again. 
But  since  we  ne'er  can  charm  away 
The  mandate  of  that  awful  day. 
Why  do  we  vainly  weep  at  fate, 
And  sigh  for  life's  uncertain  date  ? 
The  light  of  gold  can  ne'er  illume 
The  dreary  midnight  of  the  tomb! 
And  why  should  I  then  pant  for  treasures  ? 
Mine  be  the  brilliant  round  of  pleasures; 
The  goblet  rich,  the  hoard  of  friends, 
Whose  flowing  souls  the  goblet  blends! 

Moore's  Translation. 


ANACREON  499 

DRINKING 

I  CARE  not  for  the  idle  state 
Of  Persia's  king,  the  rich,  the  g^reat! 
I  envy  not  the  monarch's  throne, 
Nor  wish  the  treasured  gold  my  own. 
But  oh!  be  mine  the  rosy  braid, 
The  fervor  of  my  brows  to  shade; 
Be  mine  the  odors,  richly  sighing. 
Amid  my  hoary  tresses  flying. 
To-day  I'll  haste  to  quaff  my  wine. 
As  if  to-morrow  ne'er  should  shine; 
But  if  to-morrow  comes,  why  then  — 
I'll  haste  to  quaff  my  wine  again. 
Ard  thus  while  all  our  days  are  bright. 
Nor  time  has  dimmed  their  bloomy  light. 
Let  us  the  festal  hours  beguile 
With  mantling  cup  and  cordial  smile; 
And  shed  from  every  bowl  of  wine 
The  richest  drop  on  Bacchus's  shrine! 
For  Death  may  come,  with  Drow  unpleasant. 
May  come  when  least  we  wish  him  present. 
And  beckon  to  the  sable  shore. 
And  grimly  bid  us  —  drink  no  more! 

Moore's  Translation. 


A  LOVER'S   SIGH 

THE  Phrygian  rock  that  braves  the  storm 
Was  once  a  weeping  matron's  form; 
And  Procne,  hapless,  frantic  maid. 
Is  now  a  swallow  in  the  shade. 
Oh  that  a  mirror's  form  were  mine. 
To  sparkle  with  that  smile  divine ; 
And  like  my  heart  I  then  should  be. 
Reflecting  thee,  and  only  thee! 
Or  could  I  be  the  robe  which  holds 
That  graceful  form  within  its  folds; 
Or,  turned  into  a  fountain,  lave 
Thy  beauties  in  my  circling  wave; 
Or,  better  still,  the  zone  that  lies 
Warm  to  thy  breast,  and  feels  its  sighs! 
Or  like  those  envious  pearls  that  show 
So  faintly  round  that  neck  of  snow! 


coo  HANS   CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN 

Yes,  I  would  be  a  happy  gem, 

Like  them  to  hang,  to  fade  like  them. 

What  more  would  thy  Anacreon  be  ? 

Oh,  anything  that  touches  thee. 

Nay,  sandals  for  those  airy  feet  — 

Thus  to  be  pressed  by  thee  were  sweet! 

Moore's  Translation. 


HANS   CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN 

(1805 -1875) 

BY  BENJAMIN  W.   WELLS  ' 

'he  place  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen  in  literature  is  that  of 
the  <<  Children's  Poet,'^  though  his  best  poetry  is  prose. 
He  was  born  in  the  ancient  Danish  city  of  Odense,  on  April 
2d,  1805,  of  poor  and  shiftless  parents.  He  had  little  regular  instruc- 
tion, and  few  childish  associates.  His  youthful  imagination  was  first 
stimulated  by  La  Fontaine's  <  Fables  *  and  the  <  Arabian  Nights,  ^  and 
he  showed  very  early  a  dramatic  instinct,  trying  to  act  and  even  to 
imitate  Shakespeare,  though,  as  he  says,  <<  hardly  able  to  spell  a  single 
word  correctly.*^  It  was  therefore  natural  that  the  visit  of  a  dramatic 
company  to  Odense,  in  1818,  should  fire  his  fancy  to  seek  his  theatri- 
cal fortune  in  Copenhagen;  whither  he  went  in  September,  18 19,  with 
fifteen  dollars  in  his  pocket  and  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a  danseuse 
at  the  Royal  Theatre,  who  not  unnaturally  took  her  strange  visitor 
for  a  lunatic,  and  showed  him  the  door.  For  four  years  he  labored 
diligently,  suffered  acutely,  and  produced  nothing  of  value;  though 
he  gained  some  influential  friends,  who  persuaded  the  king  to  grant 
him  a  scholarship  for  three  years,  that  he  might  prepare  for  the 
university. 

Though  he  was  neither  a  brilliant  nor  a  docile  pupil,  he  did  not 
exhaust  the  generous  patience  of  his  friends,  who  in  1829  enabled 
him  to  publish  by  subscription  his  first  book,  <A  Journey  on  Foot 
from  Holm  Canal  to  the  East  Point  of  Amager^r  a  fantastic  ara- 
besque, partly  plagiarized  and  partly  parodied  from  the  German 
romanticists,   but  with  a  naivete  that  might  have  disarmed  criticism. 

In  1 83 1  there  followed  a  volume  of  poems,  the  sentimental  and 
rather  mawkish  < Fantasies  and  Sketches,'  product  of  a  journey  in 
Jutland  and  of  a  silly  love  affair.  This  book  was  so  harshly  criti- 
cized that  he  resolved  to  seek  a  refuge  and  new  literary  inspiration 
in  a  tour  to  Germany;  for  all  through  his  life,  traveling  was  Ander- 
sen's stimulus  and  distraction,  so  that  he  compares  himself,  later,  to 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN  eat 

a  pendtilum  *  bound  to  go  backward  and  forward,  tic,  too,  tic,  toe, 
till  the  clock  stops,  and  down  I  lie.'* 

This  German  tour  inspired  his  first  worthy  book,  *  Silhouettes,* 
with  some  really  admirable  pages  of  description.  His  success  encour- 
aged him  to  attempt  the  drama  again,  where  he  failed  once  more, 
and  betook  himself  for  relief  to  Paris  and  Italy,  with  a  brief  stay  in 
the  Jura  Mountains,  which  is  delightfully  described  in  his  novel, 
<0.  T.> 

Italy  had  on  him  much  the  same  clarifying  effect  that  it  had 
on  Goethe;  and  his  next  book,  the  novel  ^ Improvisatore '  (1835), 
achieved  and  deserved  a  European  recognition.  Within  ten  years 
the  book  was  translated  into  six  languages.  It  bears  the  mark  of  its 
date  in  its  romantic  sentiments.  There  is  indeed  no  firm  character- 
drawing,  here  or  in  any  of  his  novels;  but  the  book  still  claims 
attention  for  its  exquisite  descriptions  of  Italian  life  and  scenery. 

The  year  1835  saw  also  Andersen's  first  essay  in  the  <  Wonder 
Stories,*  which  were  to  give  him  his  lasting  title  to  grateful  remem- 
brance. He  did  not  think  highly  of  this  work  at  the  time,  though 
his  little  volume  contained  the  now  classic  ^  Tinderbox,  *  and  *  Big 
Claus  and  Little  Claus.*  Indeed,  he  always  chafed  a  little  at  the 
modest  fame  of  a  writer  for  children;  but  he  continued  for  thirty- 
seven  years  to  publish  those  graceful  fancies,  which  in  their  little 
domain  still  hold  the  first  rank,  and  certainly  gave  the  freest  scope 
to  Andersen's  qualities,  while  they  masked  his  faults  and  limitations. 

He  turned  again  from  this  "sleight  of  hand  with  Fancy's  golden 
apples,'*  to  the  novel,  in  the  <  O.  T.*  (1836),  which  marks  no  advance 
on  the  <  Improvisatore  * ;  and  in  the  next  year  he  published  his  best 
romance,  *  Only  a  Fiddler,  *  which  is  still  charming  for  its  autobio- 
graphical touches,  its  genuine  humor,  and  its  deep  pathos.  At  the 
time,  this  book  assured  his  European  reputation;  though  it  has  less 
interest  for  us  to-day  than  the  *  Tales,  *  or  the  *  Picture  Book  without 
Pictures*  (1840),  where,  perhaps  more  than  anywhere  else  in  his  work, 
the  child  speaks  with  all  the  naivete  of  his  nature. 

A  journey  to  the  East  was  reflected  in  *A  Poet's  Bazaar*  (1842); 
and  these  years  contain  also  his  last  unsuccessful  dramatic  efforts, 
<The  King  Dreams*  and  *The  New  Lying-in  Room.*  In  1843  he  was 
in  Paris,  in  1844  in  Germany,  and  in  the  next  year  he  extended  his 
wanderings  to  Italy  and  England,  where  Mary  Howitt's  translations 
had  assured  him  a  welcome.  Ten  years  later  he  revisited  England- 
as  the  guest  of  Dickens  at  Gadshill. 

The  failure  of  an  epic,  ^Ahasuerus*  (1847),  and  of  a  novel,  *The 
Two  Baronesses*  (1849),  made  him  turn  with  more  interest  to  wonder 
tales  and  fairy  dramas,  which  won  a  considerable  success;  and  when 
the  political  troubles  of  1848  directed  his  wanderings  toward  Sweden, 


502  HANS   CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN 

he  made  from  them  <I  Sverrig*  (In  Sweden:  1849),  his  most  exquisite 
book  of  travels.  As  Europe  grew  peaceful  again  he  resumed  his  in- 
defatigable wanderings,  visiting  Germany,  France,  Italy,  Switzerland, 
Spain,  Bohemia,  and  England;  printing  between  1852  and  1862  nine 
little  volumes  of  stories,  the  mediocre  but  successful  ^In  Spain  >  (i860), 
and  his  last  novel,  <  To  Be  or  Not  To  Be  ^  (1857),  which  reflects  the 
religious  speculations  of  his  later  years. 

He  was  now  in  comparatively  easy  circumstances,  and  passed  the 
last  fifteen  years  of  his  life  unharassed  by  criticism,  and  surrounded 
with  the  <^ honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends,'*  that  should 
accompany  old  age.  It  was  not  until  1866  that  he  made  himself  a 
home;  and  even  at  sixty-one  he  said  the  idea  *  positively  frightened 
him  —  he  knew  he  should  run  away  from  it  as  soon  as  ever  the  first 
warm  sunbeam  struck  him,  like  any  other  bird  of  passage.'* 

In  1869  he  celebrated  his  literary  jubilee.  In  1872  he  finished  his 
last  *■  Stories.  *  That  year  he  met  with  an  accident  in  Innsbriick  from 
which  he  never  recovered.  Kind  friends  eased  his  invalid  years;  and 
so  general  was  the  grief  at  his  illness  that  the  children  of  the  United 
States  collected  a  sum  of  money  for  his  supposed  necessities,  which 
at  his  request  took  the  form  of  books  for  his  library.  A  few  months 
later,  after  a  brief  and  painless  illness,  he  died,  August  ist,  1875.  His 
admirers  had  already  erected  a  statue  in  his  honor,  and  the  State  gave 
him  a  magnificent  funeral;  but  his  most  enduring  monument  is  that 
which  his  < Wonder  Tales*  are  still  building  all  around  the  world. 

The  character  of  Andersen  is  full  of  curious  contrasts.  Like  the 
French  fabulist.  La  Fontaine,  he  was  a  child  all  his  life,  and  often  a 
spoiled  child;  yet  he  joined  to  childlike  simplicity  no  small  share  of 
worldly  wisdom.  Constant  travel  made  him  a  shrewd  observer  of 
detail,  but  his  self-absorption  kept  him  from  sympathy  with  the  broad 
political  aspirations  of  his  generation. 

In  the  judgment  of  his  friends  and  critics,  his  autobiographical 
<  Story  of  My  Life  *  is  strangely  unjust,  and  he  never  understood  the 
limitations  of  his  genius.  He  was  not  fond  of  children,  nor  personally 
attractive  to  them,  though  his  letters  to  them  are  charming. 

In  personal  appearance  he  was  limp,  ungainly,  awkward,  and  odd, 
with  long  lean  limbs,  broad  flat  hands,  and  feet  of  striking  size. 
His  eyes  were  small  and  deep-set,  his  nose  very  large,  his  neck  very 
long;  but  he  masked  his  defects  by  studied  care  in  dress,  and 
always  fancied  he  looked  distinguished,  delighting  to  display  his 
numerous  decorations  on  his  evening  dress  in  complacent  profusion. 

On  Andersen's  style  there  is  a  remarkably  acute  study  by  his 
fellow-countryman  Brandes,  in  ^  Kritiker  og  Portraiter  *  (Critiques  and 
Portraits),  and  a  useful  comment  in  Boyesen's  *  Scandinavian  Litera- 
ture.*    When  not  perverted  by  his  translators,  it  is  perhaps  better 


HANS   CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN 


503 


suited  than  any  other  to  the  comprehension  of  children.  His  syntax 
and  rhetoric  are  often  faulty ;  and  in  the  *  Tales  *  he  does  not  hesitate 
to  take  liberties  even  with  German,  if  he  can  but  catch  the  vivid, 
darting  imagery  of  juvenile  fancy,  the  **  ohs  **  and  ^^  ahs  *^  of  the  nurs- 
ery, its  changing  intonations,  its  fears,  its  smiles,  its  personal  appeals, 
and  its  venerable  devices  to  spur  attention  and  kindle  sympathy. 
Action,  or  imitation,  takes  the  place  of  description.  We  hear  the 
trumpeter's  taratantara  and  *  the  pattering  rain  on  the  leaves,  rum 
diim  dum,  rum  dum  dum?'*  The  soldier  ^^  comes  marching  along,  left, 
right,  left,  rights*  No  one  puts  himself  so  wholly  in  the  child's  place 
and  looks  at  nature  so  wholly  with  his  eyes  as  Andersen.  <<If  you 
hold  one  of  those  burdock  leaves  before  your  little  body  it's  just  like 
an  apron,  and  if  you  put  it  on  your  head  it's  almost  as  good  as  an 
umbrella,  it's  so  big.**  Or  he  tells  you  that  when  the  sun  shone  on 
the  flax,  and  the  clouds  watered  it,  <*it  was  just  as  nice  for  it  as  it 
is  for  the  little  children  to  be  washed  and  then  get  a  kiss  from 
mother:  that  makes  them  prettier;  of  course  it  does.**  And  here,  as 
Brandes  remarks,  every  right-minded  mamma  stops  and  kisses  the 
child,  and  their  hearts  are  warmer  for  that  day's  tale. 

The  starting-point  of  this  art  is  personification.  To  the  child's 
fancy  the  doll  is  as  much  alive  as  the  cat,  the  broom  as  the  bird, 
and  even  the  letters  in  the  copy-book  can  stretch  themselves.  On 
this  foundation  he  builds  myths  that  tease  by  a  certain  semblance  of 
rationality,  —  elegiac,  more  often  sentimental,  but  at  their  best,  like 
normal  children,  without  strained  pathos  or  forced  sympathy. 

Such  personification  has  obvious  dramatic  and  lyric  elements;  but 
Andersen  lacked  the  technique  of  poetic  and  dramatic  art,  and 
marred  his  prose  descriptions,  both  in  novels  and  books  of  travel,  by 
an  intrusive  egotism  and  lyric  exaggeration.  No  doubt,  therefore, 
the  most  permanent  part  of  his  work  is  that  which  popular  instinct 
has  selected,  the  < Picture  Book  without  Pictures,*  the  ^ Tales  and 
Stories*;  and  among  these,  those  will  last  longest  that  have  least  of 
the  lyric  and  most  of  the  dramatic  element. 

Nearly  all  of  Andersen's  books  are  translated  in  ten  uniform  but 
unnumbered  volumes,  published  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company. 
Of  the  numerous  translations  of  the  ^  Tales,*  Mary  Hewitt's  (1846)  and 
Sommer's  (1893)  are  the  best,  though  far  from  faultless. 

The  <  Life  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen  *  by  R.  Nisbet  Bain  (New 
York,    1895)  is  esteemed  the  best. 


Ar'Tyi^^^^ 


"A 


C04  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


THE   STEADFAST  TIN   SOLDIER 

From  <  Collected  Fairy  Tales, >  newly  translated 

THERE  were  once  twenty-five  tin  soldiers^  who  were  all  brothers, 
for  they  were  cast  out  of  one  old  tin  spoon.  They  held 
their  muskets,  and  their  faces  were  turned  to  the  enemy; 
red  and  blue,  ever  so  fine,  were  the  uniforms.  The  first  thing 
they  heard  in  this  world,  when  the  cover  was  taken  from  the 
box  where  they  lay,  were  the  words,  *<Tin  soldiers!**  A  little 
boy  shouted  it,  and  clapped  his  hands.  He  had  got  them  because 
it  was  his  birthday,  and  now  he  set  them  up  on  the  table.  Each 
soldier  was  just  like  the  other,  only  one  was  a  little  different. 
He  had  but  one  leg,  for  he  had  been  cast  last,  and  there  was 
not  enough  tin.  But  he  stood  on  his  one  leg  just  as  firm  as  the 
others  on  two,  so  he  was  just  the  one  to  be  famous. 

On  the  table  where  they  were  set  up  stood  a  lot  of  other 
playthings;  but  what  caught  your  eye  was  a  pretty  castle  of 
paper.  Through  the  little  windows  you  could  see  right  into  the 
halls.  Little  trees  stood  in  front,  around  a  bit  of  looking-glass 
which  was  meant  for  a  lake.  Wax  swans  swam  on  it  and  were 
reflected  in  it.  That  was  all  very  pretty,  but  still  the  prettiest 
thing  was  a  Httle  girl  who  stood  right  in  the  castle  gate.  She 
was  cut  out  of  paper  too,  but  she  had  a  silk  dress,  and  a  little 
narrow  blue  ribbon  across  her  shoulders,  on  which  was  a  spark- 
ling star  as  big  as  her  whole  face.  The  little  girl  lifted  her 
arms  gracefully  in  the  air,  for  she  was  a  dancer;  and  then  she 
lifted  one  leg  so  high  that  the  tin  soldier  could  not  find  it  at  al], 
and  thought  that  she  had  only  one  leg,  just  like  himself. 

^^That  would  be  the  wife  for  me,**  thought  he,  ^*but  she  is  too 
fine  for  me.  She  lives  in  a  castle,  and  I  have  only  a  box,  which 
I  have  to  share  with  twenty-four.  That  is  no  house  for  her. 
But  I  will  see  whether  I  can  make  her  acquaintance.**  Then  he 
lay  down  at  full  length  behind  a  snuff-box  which  was  on  the 
table.  From  there  he  could  watch  the  trig  little  lady  who  kept 
standing  on  one  leg  without  losing  her  balance.  When  evening 
came,  the  other  tin  soldiers  were  all  put  in  their  box,  and  the 
people  in  the  house  went  to  bed.  Then  the  playthings  began  to 
play,  first  at  ^Wisiting,**  then  at  ^*war**  and  at  *^ dancing.**  The 
tin  soldiers  rattled  in  their  box,  for  they  would  have  liked  to 
join  in  it,  but  they  could  not  get  the  cover  off.      The  nutcracker 


HANS   CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN  505 

turned  somersaults,  and  the  pencil  scrawled  over  the  slate. 
There  was  such  a  racket  that  the  canary-bird  woke  up  and  began 
to  sing,  and  that  in  verses.  The  only  ones  that  did  not  stir  were 
the  tin  soldier  and  the  little  dancer.  She  stood  straight  on  tip- 
toe and  stretched  up  both  arms;  he  was  just  as  steadfast  on  his 
one  leg.     He  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  her  a  moment. 

Now  it  struck  twelve,  and  bang!  up  went  the  cover  of  the 
snuff-box,  but  it  wasn't  tobacco  in  it:  no,  but  a  little  black  Troll. 
It  was  a  trick  box. 

^^  Tin  soldier !  ^*  said  the  Troll,  *^  will  you  stare  your  eyes  out  ?  * 
But  the  tin  soldier  made  believe  he  did  not  hear.  *You  wait 
till  morning !  ^*  said  the  Troll. 

When  morning  came,  and  the  children  got  up,  the  tin  soldier 
was  put  on  the  window  ledge;  and  whether  it  was  the  Troll,  or 
a  gust  of  wind,  all  at  once  the  window  flew  open  and  the  tin 
soldier  fell  head  first  from  the  third  story.  That  was  an  awful 
fall.  He  stretched  his  leg  straight  up,  and  stuck  with  his  bay- 
onet and  cap  right  between  the  paving-stones. 

The  maid  and  the  little  boy  came  right  down  to  hunt  for 
him,  but  they  couldn't  see  him,  though  they  came  so  near  that 
they  almost  trod  on  him.  If  the  tin  soldier  had  called  ^^  Here  I 
am,*^  they  surely  would  have  found  him;  but  since  he  was  in 
uniform  he  did  not  think  it  proper  to  call  aloud. 

Now  it  began  to  rain.  The  drops  chased  one  another.  It 
was  a  regular  shower.  When  that  was  over,  two  street  boys 
came  along. 

*^  Hallo  !^^  said  one,  *^  There's  a  tin  soldier.  He  must  be  off 
and  sail.^* 

Then  they  made  a  boat  out  of  a  newspaper,  put  the  tin  sol- 
dier in  it,  and  made  him  sail  down  the  gutter.  Both  boys  ran 
beside  it,  and  clapped  their  hands.  Preserve  us!  What  waves 
there  were  in  the  gutter,  and  what  a  cuiTent!  It  must  have 
rained  torrents.  The  paper  boat  rocked  up  and  down,  and  some- 
times it  whirled  around  so  that  the  tin  soldier  shivered.  But  he 
remained  steadfast,  did  not  lose  color,  looked  straight  ahead  and 
held  his  musket  firm. 

All  at  once  the  boat  plunged  under  a  long  gutter-bridge.  It 
was  as  dark  there  as  it  had  been  in  his  box. 

^^  Where  am  I  going  now  ?  *  thought  he,  *  Yes,  yes,  that  is 
the  Troll's  fault.  Oh!  if  the  little  lady  were  only  in  the  boat,  I 
would  not  care  if  it  were  twice  as  dark.^* 


5o6 


HANS   CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN 


At  that  instant  there  came  a  great  water-rat  who  lived  under 
the  gutter-bridge. 

**Have  you  a  pass  ?  ^*  said  the  rat.     ^^  Show  me  your  pass.* 

But  the  tin  soldier  kept  still,  and  only  held  his  musket  the 
firmer.  The  boat  rushed  on,  and  the  rat  behind.  Oh !  how  he 
gnashed  his  teeth,  and  called  to  the  sticks  and  straws:  — 

^^  Stop  him !  Stop  him !  He  has  not  paid  toll.  He  has  showed 
no  pass.  *^ 

But  the  current  got  stronger  and  stronger.  Before  he  got  to 
the  end  of  the  bridge  the  tin  soldier  could  see  daylight,  but  he 
heard  also  a  rushing  noise  that  might  frighten  a  brave  man's 
heart.  Just  think!  at  the  end  of  the  bridge  the  gutter  emptied 
into  a  great  canal,  which  for  him  was  as  dangerous  as  for  us  to 
sail  down  a  great  waterfall. 

He  was  so  near  it  already  that  he  could  not  stop.  The  boat 
went  down.  The  poor  tin  soldier  held  himself  as  straight  as  he 
could.  No  one  should  say  of  him  that  he  had  ever  blinked  his 
eyes.  The  boat  whirled  three  or  four  times  and  filled  with 
water.  It  had  to  sink.  The  tin  soldier  stood  up  to  his  neck  in 
water,  and  deeper,  deeper  sank  the  boat.  The  paper  grew 
weaker  and  weaker.  Now  the  waves  went  over  the  soldier's 
head.  Then  he  thought  of  the  pretty  little  dancer  whom  he 
never  was  to  see  again,  and  there  rang  in  the  tin  soldier's 
ears : — 

*  Farewell,  warrior !  farewell ! 
Death  shalt  thou  suffer.'^ 

Now  the  paper  burst  in  two,  and  the  tin  soldier  fell  through, 
—  but  in  that  minute  he  was  swallowed  by  a  big  fish. 

Oh!  wasn't  it  dark  in  there.  It  was  worse  even  than  under 
the  gutter-bridge,  and  besides,  so  cramped.  But  the  tin  soldier 
was  steadfast,  and  lay  at  full  length,  musket  in  hand. 

The  fish  rushed  around  and  made  the  most  fearful  jumps. 
At  last  he  was  quite  still,  and  something  went  through  him  like 
a  lightning  flash.  Then  a  bright  light  rushed  in,  and  somebody 
called  aloud,  ^^  The  tin  soldier !  *  The  fish  had  been  caught, 
brought  to  market,  sold,  and  been  taken  to  the  kitchen,  where 
the  maid  had  slit  it  up  with  a  big  knife.  She  caught  the  soldier 
around  the  body  dnd  carried  him  into  the  parlor,  where  everybody 
wanted  to  see  such  a  remarkable  man  who  had  traveled  about 
in  a  fish's  belly.     But  the  tin  soldier  was  not  a  bit  proud.     They 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN  roy 

put  him  on  the  table,  and  there  —  well!  what  strange  things  do 
happen  in  the  world  —  the  tin  soldier  was  in  the  very  same  room 
that  he  had  been  in  before.  He  saw  the  same  children,  and  the 
same  playthings  were  on  the  table,  the  splendid  castle  with  the 
pretty  little  dancer;  she  was  still  standing  on  one  leg,  and  had 
the  other  high  in  the  air.  She  was  steadfast,  too.  That  touched 
the  tin  soldier  so  that  he  could  almost  have  wept  tin  tears,  but 
that  would  not  have  been  proper.  He  looked  at  her  and  she 
looked  at  him,  but  they  said  nothing  at  all. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  little  boys  seized  the  tin  soldier  and 
threw  him  right  into  the  tile-stove,  although  he  had  no  reason 
to.     It  was  surely  the  Troll  in  the  box  who  was  to  blame. 

The  tin  soldier  stood  in  full  light  and  felt  a  fearful  heat;  but 
whether  that  came  from  the  real  fire,  or  from  his  glowing  love, 
he  could  not  tell.  All  the  color  had  faded  from  him;  but 
whether  this  had  happened  on  the  journey,  or  whether  it  came 
from  care,  no  one  could  say.  He  looked  at  the  little  girl  and 
she  looked  at  him.  He  felt  that  he  was  melting,  but  still  he 
stood  steadfast,  musket  in  hand.  Then  a  door  opened.  A  whiff 
of  air  caught  the  dancer,  and  she  flew  like  a  sylph  right  into  the 
tile-stove  to  the  tin  soldier,  blazed  up  in  flame,  and  was  gone. 
Then  the  tin  soldier  melted  to  a  lump,  and  when  the  maid  next 
day  took  out  the  ashes,  she  found  him  as  a  little  tin  heart.  But 
of  the  dancer  only  the  star  was  left,  and  that  was  burnt  coal- 
black. 

I 

THE  TEAPOT 

From  <  Riverside  Literature  Series  >:   copyright  1891,  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

THERE  was  a  proud  Teapot,  proud  of  being  porcelain,  proud  of 
its  long  spout,  proud  of  its  broad  handle.  It  had  something 
before  and  behind  —  the  spout  before,  the  handle  behind  — 
and  that  was  what  it  talked  about.  But  it  did  not  talk  of  its 
lid  —  that  was  cracked,  it  was  riveted,  it  had  faults;  and  one  does 
not  talk  about  one's  faults  —  there  are  plenty  of  others  to  do 
that.  The  cups,  the  cream-pot,  the  sugar-bowl,  the  whole  tea- 
service  would  be  reminded  much  more  of  the  lid's  weakness,  and 
talk  about  that,  than  of  the  sound  handle  and  the  remarkable 
spout.     The  Teapot  knew  it. 

*^  I  know  you,  ^^  it  said  within  itself,  <*  I  know  well  enough, 
too,  my  fault;   and   I   am   well   aware   that  in   that  very  thing  is 


5o8  HANS   CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

seen  my  humility,  my  modesty.  We  all  have  faults,  but  then 
one  also  has  a  talent.  The  cups  get  a  handle,  the  sugar-bowl  a 
lid;  I  get  both,  and  one  thing  besides  in  front  which  they  never 
got, —  I  get  a  spout,  and  that  makes  me  a  queen  on  the  tea- 
table.  The  sugar-bowl  and  cream-pot  are  good-looking  serving 
maids;  but  I  am  the  one  who  gives,  yes,  the  one  high  in  coun- 
cil. I  spread  abroad  a  blessing  among  thirsty  mankind.  In  my 
insides  the  Chinese  leaves  are  worked  up  in  the  boiling,  taste- 
less water. '^ 

All  this  said  the  Teapot  in  its  fresh  young  life.  It  stood  on 
the  table  that  was  spread  for  tea,  it  was  lifted  by  a  very  delicate 
hand;  but  the  very  delicate  hand  was  awkward,  the  Teapot  fell. 
The  spout  snapped  off,  the  handle  snapped  off;  the  lid  was  no 
worse  to  speak  of  —  the  worst  had  been  spoken  of  that.  The 
Teapot  lay  in  a  swoon  on  the  floor,  while  the  boiling  water  ran 
out  of  it.  It  was  a  horrid  shame,  but  the  worst  was  that  they 
jeered  at  it;  they  jeered  at  it,  and  not  at  the  awkward  hand. 

^^  I  never  shall  lose  the  memory  of  that !  ^*  said  the  Teapot, 
when  it  afterward  talked  to  itself  of  the  course  of  its  life.  *^  I 
was  called  an  invalid,  and  placed  in  a  comer,  and  the  day  after 
was  given  away  to  a  woman  who  begged  victuals.  I  fell  into 
poverty,  and  stood  dumb  both  outside  and  in;  but  there,  as  I 
stood,  began  my  better  life.  One  is  one  thing  and  becomes  quite 
another.  Earth  was  placed  in  me:  for  a  Teapot  that  is  the  same 
as  being  buried,  but  in  the  earth  was  placed  a  flower  bulb.  Who 
placed  it  there,  who  gave  it,  I  know  not;  given  it  was,  and  it 
took  the  place  of  the  Chinese  leaves  and  the  boiling  water,  the 
broken  handle  and  spout.  And  the  bulb  lay  in  the  earth,  the 
bulb  lay  in  me,  it  became  my  heart,  my  living  heart,  such  as  I 
never  before  had.  There  was  life  in  me,  power  and  might.  My 
pulses  beat,  the  bulb  put  forth  sprouts,  it  was  the  springing  up 
of  thoughts  and  feelings;  they  burst  forth  in  flower.  I  saw  it,  I 
bore  it,  I  forgot  myself  in  its  delight.  Blessed  is  it  to  forget 
one's  self  in  another.  The  bulb  gave  me  no  thanks,  it  did  not 
think  of  me  —  it  was  admired  and  praised.  I  was  so  glad  at 
that:  how  happy  mtist  it  have  been!  One  day  I  heard  it  said 
that  it  ought  to  have  a  better  pot.  I  was  thumped  on  my 
back  —  that  was  rather  hard  to  bear;  but  the  flower  was  put  in  a 
better  pot  —  and  I  was  thrown  away  in  the  yard,  where  I  lie  as 
an  old  crock.     But  I  have  the  memory:  t/ia^  I  can  never  lose.^* 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


509 


THE   UGLY   DUCKLING 

From  <  Riverside  Literature  Series  >:   copjTight  1891,  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

I  —  THE    DUCKLING   IS   BORN 

IT  WAS  glorious  in  the  country.  It  was  summer;  the  cornfields 
were  yellow,  the  oats  were  green,   the  hay  had  been  put  up 

in  stacks  in  the  green  meadows;  and  the  stork  went  about 
on  his  long  red  legs,  and  chattered  Egj^ptian,  for  this  was  the 
language  he  had  learned  from  his  mother.  All  around  the  fields 
and  meadows  were  great  woods,  and  in  the  midst  of  these  woods 
deep  lakes.     Yes,  it  was  right  glorious  in  the  country. 

In  the  midst  of  the  sunshine  there  lay  an  old  farm,  with  deep 
canals  about  it;  and  from  the  wall  down  to  the  water  grew  great 
burdocks,  so  high  that  little  children  could  stand  upright  under 
the  tallest  of  them.  It  was  just  as  wild  there  as  in  the  deepest 
wood,  and  here  sat  a  Duck  upon  her  nest.  She  had  to  hatch  her 
ducklings,  but  she  was  almost  tired  out  before  the  little  ones 
came;  and  she  seldom  had  visitors.  The  other  ducks  liked  better 
to  swim  about  in  the  canals  than  to  run  up  to  sit  under  a  bur- 
dock and  gabble  with  her. 

At  last  one  egg-shell  after  another  burst  open.  **Pip!  pip!* 
each  cried,  and  in  all  the  eggs  there  were  little  things  that  stuck 
out  their  heads. 

"  Quack !  quack ! '^  said  the  Duck,  and  they  all  came  quacking 
out  as  fast  as  they  could,  looking  all  around  them  under  the 
green  leaves;  and  the  mother  let  them  look  as  much  as  they 
liked,  for  green  is  good  for  the  eye. 

"How  wide  the  world  is!*  said  all  the  young  ones;  for  they 
certainly  had  much  more  room  now  than  when  they  were  inside 
the  eggs. 

*  D'ye  think  this  is  all  the  world  ?  *  said  the  mother.  *  That 
stretches  far  across  the  other  side  of  the  garden,  quite  into  the 
parson's  field;  but  I  have  never  been  there  yet.  I  hope  you  are 
all  together,  *  and  she  stood  up.  *  No,  I  have  not  all.  The 
largest  egg  still  lies  there.  How  long  is  that  to  last  ?  I  am 
really  tired  of  it.*     And  so  she  sat  down  again. 

*  Well,  how  goes  it  ?  *  asked  an  old  Duck  who  had  come  to 
pay  her  a  visit. 

*It  lasts  a  long  time  with  this  one  egg,^^  said  the  Duck  who 
sat  there.      *It   will  not   open.      Now,    only  look   at  the   others! 


5IO  HANS   CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

They  are  the  prettiest  little  ducks  I  ever  saw.  They  are  all  like 
their  father:  the  rogue,  he  never  comes  to  see  me.^^ 

<<Let  me  see  the  egg  which  will  not  burst,**  said  the  old  Duck. 
"You  may  be  sure  it  is  a  turkey's  egg.  I  was  once  cheated  in 
that  way,  and  had  much  care  and  trouble  with  the  young  ones, 
for  they  are  afraid  of  the  water.  Must  I  say  it  to  you  ?  I  could 
not  make  them  go  in.  I  quacked,  and  I  clacked,  but  it  was  no 
use.  Let  me  see  the  egg.  Yes,  that's  a  turkey's  egg.  Let  it  lie 
there,  and  do  you  teach  the  other  children  to  swim.** 

*I  think  I  will  sit  on  it  a  little  longer,**  said  the  Duck.  <<I've 
sat  so  long  now  that  I  can  sit  a  few  days  more.** 

"Just  as  you  please,**  said  the  old  Duck;  and  she  went  away. 

At  last  the  great  egg  burst.  "Pip!  pip!**  said  the  little  one, 
and  crept  forth.  He  was  so  big  and  ugly.  The  Duck  looked  at 
him. 

"It's  a  very  large  Duckling,**  said  she.  "None  of  the  others 
looks  like  that:  it  really  must  be  a  turkey  chick!  Well,  we  shalj 
soon  find  out.  Into  the  water  shall  he  go.  even  if  I  have  to 
push  him  in.** 

II  —  HOW    THE    DUCKLING    WAS    TREATED    AT    HOME 

The  next  day  it  was  bright,  beautiful  weather;  the  sun  shone 
on  all  the  green  burdocks.  The  Mother-Duck,  with  all  her  family, 
went  down  to  the  canal.  Splash!  she  jumped  into  the  water. 
"  Quack !  quack !  **  she  said,  and  one  duckling  after  another  plumped 
in.  The  water  closed  over  their  heads,  but  they  came  up  in  an 
instant,  and  swam  off  finely;  their  legs  went  of  themselves,  and 
they  were  all  in  the  water;  even  the  ugly  gray  Duckling  swam 
with  them. 

"  No,  it's  not  a  turkey,  *  said  she :  "  look  how  well  he  uses  his 
legs,  how  straight  he  holds  himself.  It  is  my  own  child !  On  the 
whole  he's  quite  pretty,  when  one  looks  at  him  rightly.  Quack! 
quack!  come  now  with  me,  and  I'll  lead  you  out  into  the  world, 
and  present  you  in  the  duck-yard;  but  keep  close  to  me  all  the 
time,  so  that  no  one  may  tread  on  you,  and  look  out  for  the  cats.** 

And  so  they  came  into  the  duck-yard.  There  was  a  terrible 
row  going  on  in  there,  for  two  families  were  fighting  about  an 
eel's  head,  and  so  the  cat  got  it. 

"  See,  that's  the  way  it  goes  in  the  world !  **  said  the  Mother- 
Duck;  and  she  whetted  her  beak,  for  she  too  wanted  the  eel's 
head.     "  Only  use  your  legs,  **  she  said.     "  See  that  you  can  bustle 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN  gu 

about,  and  bend  your  necks  before  the  old  Duck  yonder.  She's 
the  grandest  of  all  here;  she's  of  Spanish  blood  —  that's  why 
she's  so  fat;  and  do  you  see?  she  has  a  red  rag  around  her  leg; 
that's  something  very,  very  fine,  and  the  greatest  mark  of  honor 
a  duck  can  have:  it  means  that  one  does  not  want  to  lose  her, 
and  that  she's  known  by  the  animals  and  by  men  too.  Hurry! 
hurry!  —  don't  turn  in  your  toes,  a  well  brought-up  duck  turns 
it's  toes  quite  out,  just  like  father  and  mother, —  so!  Now  bend 
your  necks  and  say  *■  Quack !  ^  " 

And  they  did  so;  but  the  other  ducks  round  about  looked  at 
them,  and  said  quite  boldly, — "  Look  there !  now  we're  to  have 
this  crowd  too!  as  if  there  were  not  enough  of  us  already!  And 
—  fie! — how  that  Duckling  yonder  looks:  we  won't  stand  that!'* 
And  at  once  one  Duck  flew  at  him,  and  bit  him  in  the  neck. 

**  Let  him  alone, '*  said  the  mother:  ^^he  is  not  doing  anything 
to  any  one.'* 

^^Yes,  but  he's  too  large  and  odd,*  said  the  Duck  who  had 
bitten  him,  **  and  so  he  must  be  put  down.  '* 

"Those  are  pretty  children  the  mother  has,*  said  the  old  Duck 
with  the  rag  round  her  leg.  "They're  all  pretty  but  that  one; 
that  is  rather  unlucky.     I  wish  she  could  have  that  one  over  again.  * 

"That  cannot  be  done,  my  lady,*  said  the  Mother-Duck.  "He 
is  not  pretty,  but  he  has  a  really  good  temper,  and  swims  as  well 
as  any  of  the  others;  yes,  I  may  even  say  it,  a  little  better.  I 
think  he  will  grow  up  pretty,  perhaps  in  time  he  will  grow  a  lit- 
tle smaller;  he  lay  too  long  in  the  egg,  and  therefore  he  has  not 
quite  the  right  shape.*  And  she  pinched  him  in  the  neck,  and 
smoothed  his  feathers.  "  Besides,  he  is  a  drake,  *  she  said,  "  and 
so  it  does  not  matter  much.  I  think  he  will  be  very  strong:  he 
makes  his  way  already.* 

"The  other  ducklings  are  graceful  enough,*  said  the  old  Duck. 
"Make  yourself  at  home;  and  if  you  find  an  eel's  head,  you  may 
bring  it  to  me.* 

And  now  they  were  at  home.  But  the  poor  Duckling  who 
had  crept  last  out  of  the  egg,  and  looked  so  ugly,  was  bitten 
and  pushed  and  made  fun  of,  as  much  by  the  ducks  as  by  the 
chickens. 

"  He  is  too  big !  *  they  all  said.  And  the  turkey-cock,  who 
had  been  bom  with  spurs,  and  so  thought  he  was  an  emperor, 
blew  himself  up,  like  a  ship  in  full  sail,  and  bore  straight  down 
upon  him;   then  he  gobbled  and  grew  quite  red  in  the  face.     The 


ei2  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

poor  Duckling  did  not  know  where  he  dared  stand  or  walk;  he 
was  quite  unhappy  because  he  looked  ugly,  and  was  the  sport  of 
the  whole  duck-yard. 

So  it  went  on  the  first  day;  and  then  it  grew  worse  and 
worse.  The  poor  Duckling  was  hunted  about  by  every  one;  even 
his  brothers  and  sisters  were  quite  angry  with  him,  and  said, 
*  If  the  cat  would  only  catch  you,  you  ugly  creature  I  *^  And  the 
ducks  bit  him,  and  the  chickens  beat  him,  and  the  girl  who  had 
to  feed  the  poultry  kicked  at  him  with  her  foot. 

Ill  —  OUT    ON    THE    MOOR 

Then  he  ran  and  flew  over  the  fence,  and  the  little  birds  in 
the  bushes  flew  up  in  fear. 

*  That  is  because  I  am  so  ugly !  *^  thought  the  Duckling ;  and 
he  shut  his  eyes,  but  flew  on  further;  and  so  he  came  out  into 
the  great  moor,  where  the  wild  ducks  lived.  Here  he  lay  the 
whole  night  long,  he  was  so  tired  and  sad. 

Toward  morning  the  wild  ducks  flew  up,  and  looked  at  their 
new  mate. 

**  What  sort  of  a  one  are  you  ?  ^*  they  asked ;  and  the  Duckling 
turned  about  to  each,  and  bowed  as  well  as  he  could.  *You  are 
really  very  ugly !  ^'  said  the  Wild  Ducks.  ^^  But  that  is  all  the 
same  to  us,  so  long  as  you  do  not  marry  into  our  family.'* 

Poor  thing!  he  certainly  did  not  think  of  marrying,  and  only 
dared  ask  leave  to  lie  among  the  reeds  and  drink  some  of  the 
swamp  water. 

There  he  lay  two  whole  days;  then  came  thither  two  wild 
geese,  or,  more  truly,  two  wild  ganders.  It  was  not  long  since 
each  had  crept  out  of  an  egg,  and  that's  why  they  were  so  saucy. 

*  Listen,  comrade,**  said  one  of  them.  "You're  so  ugly  that  I 
like  you.  Will  you  go  with  us,  and  become  a  bird  of  passage  ? 
Near  here  is  another  moor,  where  are  a  few  sweet  lovely  wild 
geese,  all  unmarried,  and  all  able  to  say  ^  Quack !  *  You've  a 
chance  of  making  your  fortime,  ugly  as  you  are.** 

"  Piff !  paff !  **  sounded  through  the  air ;  and  both  the  ganders 
fell  down  dead  in  the  reeds,  and  the  water  became  blood-red. 
"  Piff !  paff !  **  it  sounded  again,  and  the  whole  flock  of  wild  geese 
flew  up  from  the  reeds.  And  then  there  was  another  report.  A 
great  hunt  was  going  on.  The  gunners  lay  around  in  the  moor, 
and    some  were    even    sitting   up   in    the    branches  of   the    trees, 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


513 


which  spread  far  over  the  reeds.  The  blue  smoke  rose  like 
clouds  in  among  the  dark  trees,  and  hung  over  the  water;  and 
the  hunting  dogs  came  —  splash,  splash!  —  into  the  mud,  and  the 
rushes  and  reeds  bent  down  on  every  side.  That  was  a  fright 
for  the  poor  Duckling!  He  turned  his  head  to  put  it  under  his 
wing;  and  at  that  very  moment  a  frightful  great  dog  stood  close 
by  the  Duckling.  His  tongue  hung  far  out  of  his  mouth,  and 
his  eyes  glared  horribly.  He  put  his  nose  close  to  the  Duckling, 
showed  his  sharp  teeth,  and — splash,  splash!  —  on  he  went  with- 
out seizing  it. 

*  Oh,  Heaven  be  thanked !  *  jighed  the  Duckling.  ^^  I  am  so 
ugly  that  even  the  dog  does  not  like  to  bite  me !  ** 

And  so  he  lay  quite  quiet,  while  the  shots  rattled  through  the 
reeds  and  gun  after  gun  was  fired.  At  last,  late  in  the  day,  all 
was  still:  but  the  poor  little  thing  did  not  dare  to  rise  up;  h'* 
waited  several  hours  still  before  he  looked  around,  and  then  hui- 
ried  away  out  of  the  moor  as  fast  as  he  could.  He  ran  on  over 
field  and  meadow;  there  was  a  storm,  so  that  he  had  hard  work 
to  get  away. 

IV  —  IN    THE    peasant's    HUT 

Towards  evening  the  Duckling  came  to  a  peasant's  poor  little 
hut:  it  was  so  tumbled  down  that  it  did  not  itself  know  on 
which  side  it  should  fall;  and  that's  why  it  stood  up.  The  storm 
whistled  around  the  Duckling  in  such  a  way  .that  he  had  to  sit 
down  to  keep  from  blowing  away;  and  the  wind  blew  worse  and 
worse.  Then  he  noticed  that  one  of  the  hinges  of  the  door 
had  given  way,  and  the  door  hung  so  slanting  that  he  could  slip 
through  the  crack  into  the  room;  and  that  is  what  he  did. 

Here  lived  an  old  woman,  with  her  Cat  and  her  Hen.  And 
the  Cat,  whom  she  called  Sonnie,  could  arch  his  back  and  purr; 
he  could  even  give  out  sparks — but  for  that,  one  had  to  stroke 
his  fur  the  wrong  way.  The  Hen  had  quite  small,  short  legs, 
and  therefore  she  was  called  Chickabiddy  Shortshanks;  she  laid 
good  eggs,  and  the  woman  loved  her  as  her  own  child. 

In  the  morning  they  noticed  at  once  the  strange  Duckling, 
and  the  Cat  began  to  purr  and  the  Hen  to  cluck. 

<^ What's  this?^*  said  the  woman,  and  looked  all  around;  but 
she  could  not  see  well,  and  therefore  she  thought  the  Duckling 
was  a  fat  duck  that  had  strayed.  "  This  is  a  rare  prize ! "  she 
said.  *^Now  I  shall  have  duck's  eggs.  I  hope  it  is  not  a  drake. 
We  must  try  that." 
I — "ii 


CI4  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

And  SO  the  Duckling  was  taken  on  trial  for  three  weeks,  but 
no  eggs  came.  And  the  Cat  was  master  of  the  house,  and  the 
Hen  was  the  lady,  and  always  said  ^*  We  and  the  world !  *^  for  they 
thought  they  were  half  the  world,  and  by  far  the  better  half.  It 
seemed  to  the  Duckling  that  one  might  have  another  mind  but 
the  Hen  would  not  allow  it. 

"Can  you  lay  eggs?* 

«No.» 

"  Then  will  you  hold  your  tongue !  * 

And  the  Cat  said,  **Can  you  curve  your  back,  and  purr,  and 
give  out  sparks  ?  * 

«No.» 

*Then  you  will  please  have  no  opinion  of  your  own  when 
sensible  folks  are  speaking !  * 

And  the  Duckling  sat  in  a  comer  and  was  in  low  spirits;  then 
he  began  to  think  of  the  fresh  air  and  the  sunshine;  and  he  was 
seized  with  such  a  strange  longing  to  swim  on  the  water,  that  he 
could  not  help  telling  the  Hen  of  it. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ? "  cried  the  Hen.  "  You  have 
nothing  to  do,  that's  why  you  have  these  fancies.  Lay  eggs,  or 
purr,  and  they  will  pass  over.* 

"But  it  is  so  charming  to  swim  in  the  water,*  said  the  Duck- 
ling, "so  nice  to  feel  it  go  over  one's  head,  and  to  dive  down  to 
the  bottom!* 

"  Yes,  that's  a  fine  thing,  truly,  *  said  the  Hen.  "  You  are  clean 
gone  crazy.  Ask  the  Cat  about  it, — he's  the  cleverest  thing  I 
know, — ask  him  if  he  likes  to  swim  in  the  water,  or  to  dive 
down:  I  won't  speak  about  myself.  Ask  our  mistress  herself,  the 
old  woman;  no  one  in  the  world  knows  more  than  she.  Do  you 
think  she  wants  to  swim,  and  let  the  water  close  above  her  head  ?* 

"You  don't  understand  me,*  said  the  Duckling. 

"We  don't  understand  you!  Then  pray  who  is  to  understand 
you  ?  You  surely  don't  pretend  to  be  cleverer  than  the  Cat  and 
the  woman  —  I  won't  say  anything  of  myself.  Don't  make  a  fool 
of  yourself,  child,  and  thank  your  Maker  for  all  the  good  you 
have.  Are  you  not  come  into  a  warm  room,  and  have  you  not 
folks  about  you  from  whom  you  can  learn  something?  But  ydu 
are  a  goose,  and  it  is  not  pleasant  to  have  you  about.  You  may 
believe  me,  I  speak  for  your  good.  I  tell  you  things  you  won't 
like,  and  by  that  one  may  always  know  one's  true  friends!  Only 
take  care  that  you  learn  to  lay  eggs,  or  to  purr,  and  to  give  out 
sparks!* 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANBERSEN  5X5 

«I  think  I  will  go  out  into  the  wide  world,"  said  the  Duckling. 

"Yes,  do  go,*^  replied  the  Hen. 

And  so  the  Duckling  went  away.  He  swam  on  the  water,  and 
dived,  but  he  was  shunned  by  every  creature  because  he  was 
so  ugly. 

V  —  WHAT  BECAME  OF  THE  DUCKLING 

Now  came  the  fall  of  the  year.  The  leaves  in  the  wood 
turned  yellow  and  brown;  the  wind  caught  them  so  that  Xh^y 
danced  about,  and  up  in  the  air  it  was  very  cold.  The  clouds 
hung  low,  heavy  with  hail  and  snow-flakes,  and  on  the  fence 
stood  the  raven,  crying  "Croak!  croak!"  for  mere  cold;  yes,  one 
could  freeze  fast  if  one  thought  about  it.  The  poor  little  Duck- 
ling certainly  had  not  a  good  time.  One  evening — the  sun  was 
just  going  down  in  fine  style — there  came  a  whole  flock  of  great 
handsome  birds  out  of  the  bushes;  they  were  shining  white,  with 
long,  supple  necks;  they  were  swans.  They  uttered  a  very 
strange  cry,  spread  forth  their  glorious  great  wings,  and  flew 
away  from  that  cold  region  to  warmer  lands,  to  fair  open  lakes. 
They  mounted  so  high,  so  high!  and  the  ugly  Duckling  had  such 
a  strange  feehng  as  he  saw  them!  He  turned  round  and  round 
in  the  water  like  a  wheel,  stretched  out  his  neck  towards  them, 
and  uttered  a  cry,  so  high,  so  strange,  that  he  was  frightened  as 
he  heard  it. 

Oh!  he  could  not  forget  those  beautiful,  happy  birds;  and  as 
soon  as  he  could  see  them  no  longer,  he  dived  down  to  the  very 
bottom,  and  when  he  came  up  again,  he  was  quite  beside  himself. 
He  did  not  know  what  the  birds  were,  nor  where  they  were  flying 
to;  but  he  loved  them  more  than  he  had  ever  loved  any  one. 
He  did  not  envy  them  at  all.  How  could  he  think  of  wishing 
to  have  such  loveliness  as  they  had  ?  He  would  have  been  glad 
if  only  the  ducks  would  have  let  him  be  among  them  —  the  poor, 
ugly  creature! 

And  the  winter  grew  so  cold,  so  cold!  The  Duckling  had  to 
swim  about  in  the  water,  to  keep  it  from  freezing  over;  but 
every  night  the  hole  in  which  he  swam  about  became  smaller 
and  smaller.  It  froze  so  hard  that  the  icy  cover  sounded;  and 
the  Duckling  had  to  use  his  legs  all  the  time  to  keep  the  hole 
from  freezing  tight.  At  last  he  became  worn  out,  and  lay  quite 
still,  and  thus  froze  fast  in  the  ice. 

Early  in  the  morning  a  peasant  came  by,  and  found  him 
there;  he  took  his  wooden  shoe,  broke  the  ice  to  pieces,  and  car- 


ei6  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

ried  the  Duckling  home  to  his  wife.  Then  the  Duckling  came 
to  himself  again.  The  children  wanted  to  play  with  him;  but 
he  thought  they  wanted  to  hurt  him,  and  in  his  terror  he  flew 
up  into  the  milk-pan,  so  that  the  milk  spilled  over  into  the 
room.  The  woman  screamed  and  shook  her  hand  in  the  air,  at 
which  the  Duckling  flew  down  into  the  tub  where  they  kept  the 
butter,  and  then  into  the  meal-barrel  and  out  again.  How  he 
looked  then!  The  woman  screamed,  and  struck  at  him  v/ith  the 
fire  tongs;  the  children  tumbled  over  one  another  as  they  tried 
to  catch  the  Duckling;  and  they  laughed  and  they  screamed!  — 
well  was  it  that  the  door  stood  open,  and  the  poor  creature  was 
able  to  slip  out  between  the  bushes  into  the  newly-fallen  snow  — 
there  he  lay  quite  worn  out. 

But  it  would  be  too  sad  if  I  were  to  tell  all  the  misery  and 
care  which  the  Duckling  had  to  bear  in  the  hard  winter.  He 
lay  out  on  the  moor  among  the  reeds,  when  the  sun  began  to 
shine  again  and  the  larks  to  sing;  it  was  a  beautiful  spring. 

Then  all  at  once  the  Duckling  could  flap  his  wings:  they 
beat  the  air  more  strongly  than  before,  and  bore  him  stoutly 
away;  and  before  he  well  knew  it,  he  found  himself  in  a  great 
garden,  where  the  elder-trees  stood  in  flower,  and  bent  their 
long  green  branches  down  to  the  winding  canal,  and  the  lilacs 
smelt  sweet.  Oh,  here  it  was  beautiful,  fresh,  and  springlike! 
and  from  the  thicket  came  three  glorious  white  swans;  they 
rustled  their  wings,  and  sat  lightly  on  the  water.  The  Duckling 
knew  the  splendid  creatures,  and  felt  a  strange  sadness. 

**I  will  fly  away  to  them,  to  the  royal  birds!  and  they  will 
beat  me,  because  I,  that  am  so  ugly,  dare  to  come  near  t^hem. 
But  it  is  all  the  same.  Better  to  be  killed  by  them  than  to  be 
chased  by  ducks,  and  beaten  by  fowls,  and  pushed  about  by  the 
girl  who  takes  care  of  the  poultry  yard,  and  to  suffer  hunger  in 
winter !  *  And  he  flew  out  into  the  water,  and  swam  toward  the 
beautiful  swans:  these  looked  at  him,  and  came  sailing  down 
upon  him  with  outspread  wings.  *^  Kill  me !  **  said  the  poor 
creature,  and  bent  his  head  down  upon  the  water,  and  waited  for 
death.  But  what  saw  he  in  the  clear  water  ?  He  saw  below  him 
his  own  image;  and  lo!  it  was  no  longer  a  clumsy  dark-gray 
bird,  ugly  and  hateful  to  look  at,  but  —  a  swan! 

It  matters  nothing  if  one  is  bom  in  a  duck-yard,  if  one  has 
only  lain  in  a  swan's  egg. 

He  felt  quite  glad  at  all  the  need  and  hard  times  he  had 
borne;    now  he  could  joy  in  his  good   luck  in  all  the  brightness 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


517 


that  was  round  him.  And  the  great  swans  swam  round  him 
and  stroked  him  with  their  beaks. 

Into  the  garden  came  Httle  children,  who  threw  bread  and 
com  into  the  water ;  and  the  youngest  cried,  **  There  is  a  new 
one !  '*  and  the  other  children  shouted,  *^  Yes,  a  new  one  has 
come !  **  And  they  clapped  their  hands  and  danced  about,  and 
ran  to  their  father  and  mother;  and  bread  and  cake  were  thrown 
into  the  water;  and  they  all  said,  "The  new  one  is  the  most 
beautiful  of  all !  so  yoimg  and  so  handsome !  *  and  the  old  swans 
bowed  their  heads  before  him. 

Then  he  felt  quite  ashamed,  and  hid  his  head  under  his 
wings,  for  he  did  not  know  what  to  do;  he  was  so  happy,  and 
yet  not  at  all  proud,  for  a  good  heart  is  never  proud.  He 
thought  how  he  had  been  driven  about  and  mocked  and  despised; 
and  now  he  heard  them  all  saying  that  he  was  the  most  beautiful 
of  all  beautiful  birds.  And  the  lilacs  bent  their  branches  straight 
down  into  the  water  before  him,  and  the  sun  shone  warm  and 
mild.  Then  his  wings  rustled,  he  lifted  his  slender  neck,  and 
cried  from  the  depths  of  his  heart:  — 

"I  never  dreamed  of  so  much  happiness  when  I  was  the 
Ugly  Duckling.'* 

WHAT  THE  MOON  SAW 

HEAR  what  the  Moon  told  me:  — 
"  I  have  seen  a  cadet  promoted  to  be  an  officer,  and  dress- 
ing himself  for  the  first  time  in  his  gorgeous  uniform;  I 
have  seen  young  girls  in  bridal  attire,  and  the  prince's  young 
bride  in  her  wedding  dress:  but  I  never  saw  such  bliss  as  that 
of  a  little  four-year-old  girl  whom  I  watched  this  evening.  She 
had  got  a  new  blue  dress,  and  a  new  pink  hat.  The  finery  was 
just  put  on,  and  all  were  calling  for  light,  for  the  moonbeams 
that  came  through  the  window  were  not  bright  enough.  They 
wanted  very  different  lights  from  that.  There  stood  the  little 
gfirl,  stiff  as  a  doll,  keeping  her  arms  anxiously  off  her  dress,  and 
her  fingers  stretched  wide  apart.  Oh!  what  happiness  beamed 
from  her  eyes,  from  her  whole  face.  *  To-morrow  you  may  go 
to  walk  in  the  dress,*  said  the  mother;  and  the  little  one  looked 
up  at  her  hat  and  down  again  at  her  dress,  and  smiled  blissfully. 
'Mother,*  she  cried,  ^what  will  the  little  dogs  think  when  they 
see  me  in  all  these  fine  clothes?*** 


5i8 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


THE   LOVERS 
From  <  Riverside  Literature  Series  >:    copyright  1891,  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co, 

THE  Top  and  the  Ball  lay  in  a  drawer  among  some  other  toys; 
and  so  the  Top  said  to  the  Ball :  — "  Shall  we  not  be  lovers, 
since  we  live  together  in  the  same  drawer  ?  * 

But  the  Ball,  which  had  a  coat  of  morocco  leather,  and 
thought  herself  as  good  as  any  fine  lady,  had  nothing  to  say  to 
such  a  thing.  The  next  day  came  the  little  boy  who  owned  the 
toys:  he  painted  the  Top  red  and  yellow,  and  drove  a  brass  nail 
into  it;    and  the  Top  looked  splendidly  when  he  turned  round. 

"  Look  at  me !  **  he  cried  to  the  Ball.  "  What  do  you  say 
now  ?  Shall  we  not  be  lovers  ?  We  go  so  nicely  together?  You 
jump  and  I  dance!  No  one  could  be  happier  than  we  two 
should  be,* 

"  Indeed !  Do  you  think  so  ?  *  said  the  Ball.  *^  Perhaps  you 
do  not  know  that  my  papa  and  my  mamma  were  morocco  slip- 
pers, and  that  I  have  a  cork  inside  me  ?  * 

**Yes,  but  I  am  made  of  mahogany,"  said  the  Top;  "and  the 
mayor  himself  turned  me.  He  has  a  turning-lathe  of  his  own, 
and  it  amuses  him  greatly,* 

"  Can  I  depend  on  that  ?  *  asked  the  Ball. 

<*  May  I  never  be  whipped  again  if  it  is  not  true !  *  replied 
the  Top. 

"You  talk  well  for  yourself,*  said  the  Ball,  "but  I  cannot  do 
what  you  ask.  I  am  as  good  as  half  engaged  to  a  swallow: 
every  time  I  leap  up  into  the  air  he  sticks  his  head  out  of  the 
nest  and  says,  ^  Will  you  ?  will  you  ?  *  And  now  I  have  silently 
said  *Yes,*  and  that  is  as  good  as  being  half  engaged;  but  I 
promise  I  will  never  forget  you.* 

"  Much  good  that  will  do !  *  said  the  Top. 

And  they  spoke  no  more  to  each  other. 

Next  day  the  Ball  was  taken  out.  The  Top  saw  how  she 
flew  high  into  the  air,  like  a  bird ;  at  last  one  could  no  longer 
see  her.  Each  time  she  came  back  again,  but  always  gave  a 
high  leap  when  she  touched  the  earth;  and  that  came  about 
either  from  her  longing,  or  because  she  had  a  cork  in  her  body. 
The  ninth  time  the  Ball  stayed  away  and  did  not  come  back 
again;  and  the  boy  looked  and  looked,  but  she  was  gone. 

"  I  know  very  well  where  she  is !  *  sighed  the  Top.  "  She  is 
•«n  the  Swallow's  nest,  and  has  married  the  Swallow!* 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN  eio 

The  more  the  Top  thought  of  this,  the  more  he  longed  for 
the  Ball.  Just  because  he  could  not  get  her,  he  fell  more  in 
love  with  her.  That  she  had  taken  some  one  else,  that  was 
another  thing.  So  the  Top  danced  around  and  hummed,  but 
always  thought  of  the  Ball,  which  grew  more  and  more  lovely  in 
his  fancy.  Thus  many  years  went  by, — and  now  it  was  an  old 
love. 

And  the  Top  was  no  longer  young.  But  one  day  he  was 
gilt  all  over;  never  had  he  looked  so  handsome;  he  was  now  a 
golden  Top,  and  sprang  till  he  hummed  again.  Yes,  that  was 
something!  But  all  at  once  he  sprang  too  high,  and  —  he  was 
gone! 

They  looked  and  looked,  even  in  the  cellar,  but  he  was  not 
to  be  found. 

Where  was  he  ? 

He  had  jumped  into  the  dust-box,  where  all  kinds  of  things 
were  lying:  cabbage  stalks,  sweepings,  and  gravel  that  had  fallen 
down  from  the  roof. 

*  Here's  a  nice  place  to  lie  in !  The  gilding  will  soon  leave 
me  here.     And  what  a  rabble  I've  come  amongst!^* 

And  then  he  looked  askance  at  a  long  cabbage  stalk  that  was 
much  too  near  him,  and  at  a  curious  round  thing  like  an  old 
apple;  but  it  was  not  an  apple  —  it  was  an  old  Ball,  which  had 
lain  for  years  in  the  roof-gutter  and  was  soaked  through  with 
water, 

^<  Thank  goodness,  here  comes  one  of  us,  with  whom  one  can 
talk!»  said  the  Httle  Ball,  and  looked  at  the  gilt  Top.  «I  am 
really  morocco,  sewn  by  a  girl's  hands,  and  have  a  cork  inside 
me;  but  no  one  would  think  it  to  look  at  me.  I  was  very  near 
marrying  a  swallow,  but  I  fell  into  the  gutter  on  the  roof,  and 
have  laid  there  full  five  years,  and  am  quite  soaked  through. 
That's  a  long  time,  you  may  believe  me,  for  a  young  girl." 

But  the  Top  said  nothing.  He  thought  of  his  old  love;  and 
the  more  he  heard,  the  clearer  it  became  to  him  that  this  was 
she.  Then  came  the  servant-girl,  and  wanted  to  empty  the  dust- 
box.  ^*Aha,  there's  a  gilt  top!"  she  cried.  And  so  the  Top  was 
brought  again  to  notice  and  honor,  but  nothing  was  heard  of  the 
Ball.  And  the  Top  spoke  no  more  of  his  old  love:  for  that  dies 
away  when  the  beloved  has  lain  for  five  years  in  a  gutter  and 
got  soaked  through;  yes,  one  does  not  know  her  again  when  one 
meets  her  in  the  dust-box. 


S20  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

THE   SNOW  QUEEN 

From  <  Riverside  Literature  Series  >:   copyright  1891,  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

FOURTH    STORY  —  THE    PRINCE    AND    PRINCESS 

GERDA  was  obliged  to  rest  herself  again,  when  just  over 
against  where  she  sat,  a  large  Crow  hopped  over  the  white 
snow.  He  had  sat  there  a  long  while,  looking  at  her  and 
shaking  his  head;  and  now  he  said,  **Caw!  caw!  Good  day! 
good  da.yl'^^  He  could  not  say  it  better;  but  he  meant  well  by 
the  little  girl,  and  asked  her  where  she  was  going  all  alone  out 
in  the  wide  world.  The  word  *' alone  ^^  Gerda  understood  quite 
well,  '.nd  felt  how  much  lay  in  it;  so  she  told  the  Crow  her 
whole  history    and  asked  if  he  had  not  seen  Kay. 

The  Crow  nodded  very  gravely,  and  said,  *^  It  may  be  —  it 
may  be !  " 

*  What ;  do  you  really  think  so  ?  *  cried  the  little  girl ;  and  she 
nearly  squeezed  the  Crow  to  death,  so  much  did  she  kiss  him. 

*^ Gently,  gently, ^^  said  the  Crow.  *I  think  I  know;  I  think 
that  it  may  be  little  Kay.  But  now  he  has  quite  forgotten  you 
for  the  Princess.** 

"  Does  he  live  with  a  princess  ?  *   asked  Gerda. 

*Yes, — listen,**  said  the  Crow;  <*but  it  is  hard  for  me  to 
speak  your  language.  If  you  understand  the  Crow  language,  I 
can  tell  you  better.** 

^'No,  I  have  not  learnt  it,**  said  Gerda;  *^but  my  grand- 
mother understands  it.     I  wish  I  had  learnt  it.** 

*^  No  matter,  **  said  the  Crow :  **  I  will  tell  you  as  well  as  I  can ; 
but  it  will  be  bad  enough.**     And  then  he  told  all  he  knew. 

*^  In  the  kingdom  where  we  now  are,  there  lives  a  princess, 
who  is  vastly  clever;  for  she  has  read  all  the  newspapers  in  the 
whole  world,  and  has  forgotten  them  again, —  so  clever  is  she. 
Some  time  ago,  they  say,  she  was  sitting  on  her  throne, —  which  is 
no  great  fun,  after  all, —  when  she  began  humming  an  old  tune, 
and  it  was  just  ^  Oh,  why  should  I  not  be  married  ?  *  ^  Come, 
now,  there  is  something  in  that,*  said  she,  and  so  then  she  was 
bound  to  marry;  but  she  would  have  a  husband  who  knew  how 
to  give  an  answer  when  he  was  spoken  to, —  not  one  who  was 
good  for  nothing  but  to  stand  and  be  looked  at,  for  that  is  very 
tiresom.e.     She    then    had   all    the    ladies   of   the    court   drummed 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


521 


tog-ether;  and  when  they  heard  what  she  meant  to  do,  all  were 
well  pleased,  and  said,  *We  are  quite  glad  to  hear  it:  it  is  the 
very  thing  we  were  thinking  of.*  You  may  believe  every  word  I 
say,'*  said  the  Crow,  *^for  I  have  a  tame  sweetheart  that  hops 
about  in  the  palace  quite  freely,  and  she  told  me  all. 

^^  The  newspapers  at  once  came  out  with  a  border  of  hearts 
and  the  initials  of  the  Princess;  and  you  could  read  in  them  that 
every  good-looking  young  man  was  free  to  come  to  the  palace 
and  speak  to  the  Princess;  and  he  who  spoke  in  such  wise  as 
showed  he  felt  himself  at  home  there,  and  talked  best,  that  one 
the  Princess  would  choose  for  her  husband. 

"Yes  —  yes,'*  said  the  Crow,  "you  may  believe  it;  it  is  as  true 
as  I  am  sitting  here.  People  came  in  crowds;  there  was  a  crush 
and  a  hurry,  but  no  one  had  good  luck  either  on  the  first  or 
second  day.  They  could  all  talk  well  enough  when  they  were  out 
in  the  street;  but  as  soon  as  they  came  inside  the  palace  gates, 
and  saw  the  guard  richly  dressed  in  silver,  and  the  lackeys  in 
gold,  on  the  staircase,  and  the  large  lighted  halls,  then  they 
were  dumb;  and  when  they  stood  before  the  throne  on  which 
the  Princess  was  sitting,  all  they  could  do  was  to  repeat  the  last 
word  she  had  said,  and  she  didn't  care  to  hear  that  again.  It 
was  just  as  if  the  people  within  were  under  a  charm,  and  had 
fallen  into  a  trance  till  they  came  out  again  into  the  street;  for 
then  —  oh,  then  they  could  chatter  enough.  There  was  a  whole 
row  of  them  from  the  town  gates  to  the  palace.  I  was  there 
myself  to  look  on,**  said  the  Crow.  "They  grew  hungry  and 
thirsty;  but  from  the  palace  they  got  not  so  much  as  a  glass  of 
water.  Some  of  the  cleverest,  it  is  true,  had  taken  bread  and 
butter  with  them;  but  none  shared  it  with  his  neighbor,  for  each 
thought,  *  Let  him  look  hungry,  and  then  the  Princess  won't 
have  him.  *  ** 

"But  Kay — little  Kay,**  asked  Gerda,  "when  did  he  come? 
Was  he  among  the  number  ?  ** 

"  Give  me  time !  give  me  time  !  we  are  coming  to  him.  It 
was  on  the  third  day,  when  a  little  personage,  without  horse  or 
carriage,  came  marching  right  boldly  up  to  the  palace;  his  eyes 
shone  like  yours,  he  had  beautiful  long  hair,  but  his  clothes  were 
very  shabby.** 

"  That  was  Kay,  **  cried  Gerda,  with  a  voice  of  delight.  "  Oh, 
now  I've  found  him!**   and  she  clapped  her  hands. 

"He  had  a  little  knapsack  at  his  back,**  said  the  Crow. 


52  2  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

•No,  that  was  certainly  his  sled,*  said  Gerda;  **for  he  went 
away  with  his  sled.* 

*That  may  be,*  said  the  Crow;  "I  did  not  see  him  close  to; 
but  I  know  from  my  tame  sweetheart  that  when  he  came  into  the 
courtyard  of  the  palace,  and  saw  the  body-guard  in  silver,  and 
the  lackeys  on  the  staircase  in  gold,  he  was  not  in  the  least  cast 
down ;  he  nodded  and  said  to  them,  *  It  must  be  very  tiresome  to 
stand  on  the  stairs;  for  my  part,  I  shall  go  in.*  The  halls  were 
bright  with  lights.  Court  people  and  fine  folks  were  walking 
about  on  bare  feet;  it  was  all  very  solemn.  His  boots  creaked, 
too,  very  loudly;  but  still  he  was  not  at  all  afraid.* 

"That's  Kay,  for  certain,*  said  Gerda,  "I  know  he  had  on 
new  boots;  I  have  heard  them  creaking  in  grandmamma's  room,* 

*  Yes,  they  creaked,  *  said  the  Crow.  "  And  on  he  went  boldly 
up  to  the  Princess,  who  was  sitting  on  a  pearl  as  large  as  a  spin- 
ning-wheel. All  the  ladies  of  the  court  stood  about,  with  their 
maids  and  their  maids'  maids,  and  all  the  gentlemen  with  their 
servants  and  their  servants'  servants,  who  kept  a  boy;  and  the 
nearer  they  stood  to  the  door,  the  prouder  they  looked.  The  boy 
of  the  servants'  servants,  who  always  goes  in  slippers,  hardly 
looked  at  one,  so  very  proudly  did  he  stand  in  the  doorway.* 

"  It  must  have  been  terrible,  *  said  little  Gerda.  "  And  did 
Kay  get  the  Princess  ?  * 

**  Were  I  not  a  Crow,  I  should  have  taken  the  Princess  myself, 
although  I  am  engaged.  It  is  said  he  spoke  as  well  as  I  speak 
when  I  talk  crow  language;  this  I  learned  from  my  tame  sweet- 
heart. He  was  bold  and  nicely  behaved;  he  had  not  come  to 
woo  the  Princess,  but  only  to  hear  her  wisdom.  She  pleased 
him  and  he  pleased  her.* 

"Yes,  yes,  for  certain  that  was  Kay,*  said  Gerda.  "He  was 
so  clever;  he  could  do  sums  with  fractions.  Oh,  won't  you  take 
ma  to  the  palace  ?  * 

"That  is  very  easily  said,*  answered  the  Crow,  "But  how  are 
we  to  manage  it?  I'll  speak  to  my  tame  sweetheart  about  it; 
she  can  tell  us  what  to  do;  for  so  much  I  must  tell  you,  such  a 
little  girl  as  you  are  will  never  get  leave  to  go  in  the  common 
way,  * 

"Oh,  yes,  I  shall,*  said  Gerda:  "when  Kay  hears  that  I  am 
here,  he  will  come  out  at  once  to  fetch  me.* 

"Wait  for  me  here  on  these  steps,*  said  the  Crow.  He 
wagged  his  head  and  flew  away. 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN  ej- 

When  it  grew  dark  the  Crow  came  back.  **Caw!  caw!"  said 
he.  ^^I  bring  you  a  great  many  good  wishes  from  her;  and  here 
is  a  bit  of  bread  for  you.  She  took  it  out  of  the  kitchen,  where 
there  is  bread  enough,  and  you  are  hungry,  no  doubt.  It  is  not 
possible  for  you  to  enter  the  palace,  for  you  are  barefoot;  the 
guards  in  silver  and  the  lackeys  in  gold  would  not  allow  it:  but 
do  not  cry,  you  shall  come  in  still.  My  sweetheart  knows  a  little 
back  stair  that  leads  to  the  chamber,  and  she  knows  where  she 
can  get  the  key  of  it.^^ 

And  they  went  into  the  garden  by  the  broad  path,  where  one 
leaf  was  falling  after  the  other;  and  when  the  lights  in  the  palace 
were  all  put  out,  one  after  the  other,  the  Crow  led  little  Gerda  to 
the  back  door,  which  stood  ajar. 

Oh,  how  Gerda's  heart  beat  with  doubt  and  longing!  It  was 
just  as  if  she  had  been  about  to  do  something  wrong;  and  yet 
she  only  wanted  to  know  if  little  Kay  was  there.  Yes,  he  must 
be  there.  She  called  to  mind  his  clear  eyes  and  his  long  hair  so 
vividly,  she  could  quite  see  him  as  he  used  to  laugh  when  they 
were  sitting  under  the  roses  at  home.  He  would  surely  be  glad 
to  see  her  —  to  hear  what  a  long  way  she  had  come  for  his  sake; 
to  know  how  unhappy  all  at  home  were  when  he  did  not  come 
back.     Oh,  what  a  fright  and  what  a  joy  it  was! 

Now  they  were  on  the  stairs.  A  single  lamp  was  burning 
there;  and  on  the  floor  stood  the  tame  Crow,  turning  her  head  on 
every  side  and  looking  at  Gerda,  who  bowed  as  her  grandmother 
had  taught  her  to  do. 

<^My  intended  has  told  me  so  much  good  of  you,  my  dear 
young  lady,*  said  the  tame  Crow.  <*Your  Life,  as  they  call  it,  is 
very  affecting.  If  you  will  take  the  lamp,  I  will  go  before.  We 
will  go  straight  on,  for  we  shall  meet  no  one." 

^^I  think  there  is  somebody  just  behind  us,'*  said  Gerda;  and 
it  rushed  past  her.  It  was  like  shadows  on  the  wall:  horses  with 
flowing  manes  and  thin  legs,  huntsmen,  ladies  and  gentlemen  on 
horseback. 

<^They  are  only  dreams,*  said  the  Crow.  *^They  come  to  fetch 
the  thoughts  of  the  fine  folk  to  the  chase;  'tis  well,  for  now  you 
can  see  them  asleep  all  the  better.  But  let  me  find,  when  you 
come  to  have  honor  and  fame,  that  you  possess  a  grateful 
heart. » 

«Tut!  that's  not  worth  talking  about,*  said  the  Crow  from  the 
woods. 


524 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


Now  they  came  into  the  first  hall,  which  was  of  rose-colored 
satin,  with  painted  flowers  on  the  wall.  Here  the  dreams  were 
rushing  past,  but  they  hurried  by  so  quickly  that  Gerda  could  not 
see  the  fine  people.  One  hall  was  more  showy  than  the  other  — 
well  might  people  be  abashed;  and  at  last  they  came  into  the 
bed-chamber. 

The  ceiling  of  the  room  was  like  a  great  palm-tree,  with  leaves 
of  glass,  of  costly  glass;  and  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  from 
a  thick  golden  stalk,  hung  two  beds,  each  of  which  was  shaped 
like  a  lily.  One  was  white,  and  in  this  lay  the  Princess:  the 
other  was  red,  and  it  was  here  that  Gerda  was  to  look  for  little 
Kay.  She  bent  back  one  of  the  red  leaves,  and  saw  a  brown 
neck  —  oh,  that  was  Kay!  She  called  him  quite  loud  by  name, 
held  the  lamp  toward  him  —  the  dreams  rushed  again  on  horse- 
back into  the  chamber  —  he  awoke,  turned  his  head,  and  —  it  was 
not  little  Kay! 

The  Prince  was  only  like  him  about  the  neck;  but  he  was 
young  and  handsome.  And  out  of  the  white  lily  leaves  the 
Princess  peeped  too,  and  asked  what  was  the  matter.  Then  little 
Gerda  cried  and  told  her  whole  history,  and  all  that  the  Crows 
had  done  for  her. 

**  Poor  little  thing !  *  said  the  Prince  and  the  Princess,  and  they 
praised  the  Crows  very  much,  and  told  them  they  were  not  at  all 
angry  with  them,  but  they  were  not  to  do  so  again.  However, 
they  should  have  a  reward. 

*  Will  you  fly  about  at  liberty  ?  **  asked  the  Princess ;  "  or  would 
you  like  to  have  a  steady  place  as  court  Crows  with  all  the 
broken  bits  from  the  kitchen  ?  ^* 

And  both  the  Crows  nodded,  and  begged  for  a  steady  place; 
for  they  thought  of  their  old  age,  and  said  **it  was  a  good  thing 
to  have  something  for  the  old  folks,**  as  the  saying  is. 

And  the  Prince  got  up  and  let  Gerda  sleep  in  his  bed,  and 
more  than  this  he  could  not  do.  She  folded  her  little  hands,  and 
thought,  "  How  good  men  and  animals  are !  **  and  then  she  shut 
her  eyes  and  slept  soundly.  All  the  dreams  came  flying  in  again, 
and  they  now  looked  like  the  angels;  they  drew  a  little  sled,  on 
which  Kay  sat  and  nodded  his  head:  but  the  whole  was  only  a 
dream,  and  so  it  was  all  gone  as  soon  as  she  awoke. 

The  next  day  she  was  dressed  from  top  to  toe  in  silk  and 
velvet.  They  offered  to  let  her  stay  at  the  palace,  and  lead  a 
happy  life;  but  she  begged  only  to  have  a  little  carriage  with  a 


HANS  CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN 


525 


horse  in  front,  and  for  a  small  pair  of  shoes;  then,  she  said,  she 
would  again  go  forth  in  the  wide  world  and  look  "for  Kay. 

And  she  got  both  shoes  and  a  muff;  she  was  dressed  very 
nicely,  too;  and  when  she  was  about  to  set  off,  a  new  carriage 
stopped  before  the  door.  It  was  of  pure  gold,  and  the  arms  of 
the  Prince  and  Princess  shone  like  a  star  upon  it;  the  coachman, 
the  footmen,  and  the  outriders,  for  outriders  were  there  too,  all 
wore  golden  crowns.  The  Prince  and  Princess  helped  her  into 
the  carriage  themselves,  and  wished  her  good  luck.  The  Crow 
of  the  woods,  who  was  now  married,  went  with  her  for  the  first 
three  miles.  He  sat  beside  Gerda,  for  he  could  not  bear  riding 
backward;  the  other  Crow  stood  in  the  doorway,  and  flapped  her 
wings;  she  could  not  go  with  Gerda,  because  she  suffered  from 
headache  since  she  had  had  a  steady  place,  and  ate  so  much. 
The  carriage  was  lined  inside  with  sugar-plums,  and  in  the  seats 
were  fruits  and  cookies. 

*  Good-by !  good-by !  **  cried  Prince  and  Princess ;  and  little 
Gerda  wept,  and  the  Crows  wept.  Thus  passed  the  first  miles; 
and  then  the  Crow  said  good-by,  and  this  was  the  worst  good-by 
of  all.  He  flew  into  a  tree,  and  beat  his  black  wings  as  long  as 
he  could  see  the  carriage,  that  shone  from  afar  like  the  clear 
sunlight. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE 

From  <  Riverside  Literature  Series  >:   copyright  1891,  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

I THE    REAL     NIGHTINGALE 

IN  China,  you  must  know,  the   Emperor  is  a  Chinaman,  and  all 
whom   he  has  about  him  are  Chinamen  too.      It  happened  a 
good  many  years  ago,  but  that's  just  why  it's  worth  while  to 
hear  the  story  before  it  is  forgotten. 

The  Emperor's  palace  was  the  most  splendid  in  the  world.  It 
was  made  wholly  of  fine  porcelain,  very  costly,  but  so  brittle  and 
so  hard  to  handle  that  one  had  to  take  care  how  one  touched  it. 
In  the  garden  were  to  be  seen  the  most  wonderful  flowers,  and 
to  the  prettiest  of  them  silver  bells  were  tied,  which  tinkled,  so 
that  nobody  should  pass  by  without  noticing  the  flowers. 

Yes,  everything  in  the  Emperor's  garden  was  nicely  set  out, 
and  it  reached   so  far  that  the  gardener  himself  did  noi   know 


526 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


where  the  end  was.  If  a  man  went  on  and  on,  he  came  into  a 
glorious  forest  with  high  trees  and  deep  lakes.  The  wood  went 
straight  down  to  the  sea,  which  was  blue  and  deep ;  great  ships 
could  sail  to  and  fro  beneath  the  branches  of  the  trees;  and  in  the 
trees  lived  a  Nightingale,  which  sang  so  finely  that  even  the  poor 
Fisherman,  who  had  many  other  things  to  do,  stopped  still  and 
listened,  when  he  had  gone  out  at  night  to  throw  out  his  nets, 
and  heard  the  Nightingale, 

<^How  beautiful  that  is!**  he  said;  but  he  had  to  attend  to  his 
work,  and  so  he  forgot  the  bird.  But  the  next  night,  when  the 
bird  sang  again,  and  the  Fisherman  heard  it,  he  said  as  before, 
*  How.  beautiful  that  is !  ** 

From  all  the  countries  of  the  world  travelers  came  to  the  city 
of  the  Emperor,  and  admired  it,  and  the  palace,  and  the  garden; 
but  when  they  heard  the  Nightingale,  they  all  said,  **That  is  the 
best  of  all !  » 

And  the  travelers  told  of  it  when  they  came  home;  and  the 
learned  men  wrote  many  books  about  the  town,  the  palace,  and 
the  garden.  But  they  did  not  forget  the  Nightingale;  that  was 
spoken  of  most  of  all;  and  all  those  who  were  poets  wrote  great 
poems  about  the  Nightingale  in  the  wood  by  the  deep  lake. 

The  books  went  all  over  the  world,  and  a  few  of  them  once 
came  to  the  Emperor.  He  sat  in  his  golden  chair,  and  read,  and 
read ;  every  moment  he  nodded  his  head,  for  it  pleased  him  to 
hear  the  fine  things  that  were  said  about  the  city,  the  palace, 
and  the  garden.  **But  the  Nightingale  is  the  best  of  all!*  —  it 
stood  written  there. 

"  What's  that  ?  **  exclaimed  the  Emperor.  *  The  Nightingale  ? 
I  don't  know  that  at  all!  Is  there  such  a  bird  in  my  empire,  and 
in  my  garden  to  boot  ?  I've  never  heard  of  that.  One  has  to 
read  about  such  things.* 

Hereupon  he  called  his  Cavalier,  who  was  so  gfrand  that  if  any 
one  lower  in  rank  than  he  dared  to  speak  to  him,  or  to  ask  him 
any  question,  he  answered  nothing  but  **P!*  —  and  that  meant 
nothing. 

*  There  is  said  to  be  a  strange  bird  here  called  a  Nightin- 
gale !  *  said  the  Emperor.  *  They  say  it  is  the  best  thing  in  all 
my  great  empire.  Why  has  no  one  ever  told  me  anything 
about  it  ? » 

**I  have  never  heard  it  named,*  replied  the  Cavalier.  *  It  has 
never  been  presented  at  court.* 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


527 


^^  I  command  that  it  shall  come  here  this  evening,  and  sing 
before  me,^*  said  the  Emperor.  **A11  the  world  knows  what  I 
have,  and  I  do  not  know  it  myself !  ** 

**  I  have  never  heard  it  mentioned, "  said  the  Cavalier.  ^*  I  will 
seek  for  it.     I  will  find  it.** 

But  where  was  it  to  be  found  ?  The  Cavalier  ran  up  and 
down  all  the  stairs,  through  halls  and  passages,  but  no  one 
among  all  those  whom  he  met  had  heard  talk  of  the  Nightingale. 
And  the  Cavalier  ran  back  to  the  Emperor,  and  said  that  it  must 
be  a  fable  made  up  by  those  who  write  books. 

^^Your  Imperial  Majesty  must  not  believe  what  is  written.  It 
is  fiction,  and  something  that  they  call  the  black  art." 

*  But  the  book  in  which  I  read  this, "  said  the  Emperor,  *  was 
sent  to  me  by  the  high  and  mighty  Emperor  of  Japan,  and  so  it 
cannot  be  a  falsehood.  I  will  hear  the  Nightingale!  It  must  be 
here  this  evening!  It  has  my  high  favor;  and  if  it  does  not 
come,  all  the  court  shall  be  trampled  upon  after  it  has  supped !  ** 

**  Tsing-pe !  **  said  the  Cavalier;  and  again  he  ran  up  and  down 
all  the  stairs,  and  through  all  the  halls  and  passages,  and  half 
the  court  ran  with  him,  for  the  courtiers  did  not  like  being 
trampled  upon.  There  was  a  great  inquiry  after  the  wonderful 
Nightingale,  which  all  the  world  knew,  but  not  the  people  at 
court. 

At  last  they  met  with  a  poor  little  girl  in  the  kitchen.  She 
said :  — 

"  The  Nightingale  ?  I  know  it  well ;  yes,  how  it  can  sing ! 
Every  evening  I  get  leave  to  carry  my  poor  sick  mother  the 
scraps  from  the  table.  She  lives  down  by  the  beach,  and  when 
I  get  back  and  am  tired,  and  rest  in  the  wood,  then  I  hear  the 
Nightingale  sing.  And  then  the  tears  come  into  my  eyes,  and  it 
is  just  as  if  my  mother  kissed  me !  ** 

*  Little  Kitchen-girl,  **  said  the  Cavalier,  *^  I  will  get  you  a 
fixed  place  in  the  kitchen,  with  leave  to  see  the  Emperor  dine, 
if  you  will  lead  us  to  the  Nightingale,  for  it  is  promised  for  this 
evening.  * 

So  they  all  went  out  into  the  wood  where  the  Nightingale 
was  wont  to  sing;  half  the  court  went  out.  When  they  were  on 
the  way,  a  cow  began  to  low. 

**Oh!"  cried  the  court  pages,  *now  we  have  it!  That  shows 
a  great  power  in  so  small  a  creature !  We  have  certainly  heard  it 
before.  ** 


528 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


**  No,  those  are  cows  mooing !  '*  said  the  little  Kitchen-girl. 
"We  are  a  long  way  from  the  place  yet.'^ 

Now  the  frogs  began  to  croak  in  the  marsh. 

*  Glorious !  ^^  said  the  Chinese  Court  Preacher.  **  Now  I  hear 
it  —  it  sounds  just  like  little  church  bells.* 

"  No,  those  are  frogs !  **  said  the  little  Kitchen-maid.  "  But 
now  I  think  we  shall  soon  hear  it.** 

And  then  the  Nightingale  began  to  sing. 

«That  is  it!'*  exclaimed  the  little  Girl.  « Listen,  listen!  and 
yonder  it  sits.** 

And  she  pointed  to  a  little  gray  bird  up  in  the  boughs. 

"Is  it  possible  ? **  cried  the  Cavalier.  " I  should  never  have 
thought  it  looked  like  that!  How  simple  it  looks!  It  must  cer- 
tainly have  lost  its  color  at  seeing  so  many  famous  people 
around.  ** 

"  Little  Nightingale !  **  called  the  little  Kitchen-maid,  quite 
loudly,    "  our  gracious  Emperor  wishes  you  to  sing  before  him.  ** 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure !  **  replied  the  Nightingale,  and 
sang  so  that  it  was  a  joy  to  hear  it. 

"  It  sounds  just  like  glass  bells !  **  said  the  Cavalier.  "  And 
look  at  its  little  throat,  how  it's  working!  It's  wonderful  that  we 
should  never  have  heard  it  before.  That  bird  will  be  a  great 
success  at  court.** 

"  Shall  I  sing  once  more  before  the  Emperor  ?  **  asked  the 
Nightingale,  for  it  thought  the  Emperor  was  present. 

"  My  excellent  little  Nightingale,  **  said  the  Cavalier,  "  I  have 
great  pleasure  in  inviting  you  to  a  court  festival  this  evening, 
when  you  shall  charm  his  Imperial  Majesty  with  your  beautiful 
singing.  ** 

"  My  song  sounds  best  in  the  greenwood !  **  replied  the  Night- 
ingale; still  it  came  willingly  when  it  heard  what  the  Emperor 
wished. 

In  the  palace  there  was  a  great  brushing  up.  The  walls  and 
the  floor,  which  were  of  porcelain,  shone  with  many  thousand 
golden  lamps.  The  most  glorious  flowers,  which  could  ring 
clearly,  had  been  placed  in  the  halls.  There  was  a  running  to 
and  fro,  and  a  draught  of  air,  but  all  the  bells  rang  so  exactly 
together  that  one  could  not  hear  any  noise. 

In  the  midst  of  the  great  hall,  where  the  Emperor  sat,  a 
golden  perch  had  been  placed,  on  which  the  Nightingale  was  to 
sit.      The   whole   court   was  there,   and   the   little   Cook-maid  had 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN  ezg 

leave  to  stand  behind  the  door,  as  she  had  now  received  the  title 
of  a  real  cook-maid.  All  were  in  full  dress,  and  all  looked  at 
the  little  gray  bird,  to  which  the  Emperor  nodded. 

And  the  Nightingale  sang  so  gloriously  that  the  tears  came 
into  the  Emperor's  eyes,  and  the  tears  ran  down  over  his  cheeks; 
and  then  the  Nightingale  sang  still  more  sweetly;  that  went 
straight  to  the  heart.  The  Emperor  was  happy,  and  he  said  the 
Nightingale  should  have  his  golden  slipper  to  wear  round  its 
neck.  But  the  Nightingale  thanked  him,  it  had  already  got 
reward  enough. 

"I  have  seen  tears  in  the  Emperor's  eyes  —  that  is  the  real 
treasure  to  me.  An  Emperor's  tears  have  a  strange  power.  I 
am  paid  enough !  *  Then  it  sang  again  with  a  sweet,  glorious 
voice. 

*  That's  the  most  lovely  way  of  making  love  I  ever  saw !  * 
said  the  ladies  who  stood  round  about,  and  then  they  took  water 
in  their  mouths  to  gurgle  when  any  one  spoke  to  them.  They 
thought  they  should  be  nightingales  too.  And  the  lackeys  and 
maids  let  it  be  known  that  they  were  pleased  too;  and  that  was 
saying  a  good  deal,  for  they  are  the  hardest  of  all  to  please.  In 
short,  the  Nightingale  made  a  real  hit. 

It  was  now  to  remain  at  court,  to  have  its  own  cage,  with 
freedom  to  go  out  twice  every  day  and  once  at  night.  It  had 
twelve  servants,  and  they  all  had  a  silken  string  tied  to  the 
bird's  leg  which  they  held  very  tight.  There  was  really  no 
pleasure  in  going  out. 

The  whole  city  spoke  of  the  wonderful  bird,  and  when  two 
people  met,  one  said  nothing  but  **  Nightin,  ^^  and  the  other  said 
*^  gale  '* ;  and  then  they  sighed,  and  understood  one  another. 
Eleven  storekeepers'  children  were  named  after  the  bird,  but  not 
one  of  them  could  sing  a  note. 


IT  —  THE   TOY    NIGHTINGALE 

One  day  a  large  parcel  came  to  the  Emperor,  on  which  was 
written  *The  Nightingale.** 

"Here  we  have  a  new  book  about  this  famous  bird,*  said  the 
Emperor. 

But  it  was  not  a  book:  it  was  a  little  work  of  art,  that  lay  m 
a  box;  a  toy  nightingale,  which  was  to  sing  like  a  live  one,  but 
1—34 


53©  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

it  was  all  covered  with  diamonds,  rubies,  and  sapphires.  So  soon 
as  the  toy  bird  was  wound  up,  he  could  sing  one  of  the  pieces 
that  the  real  one  sang,  and  then  his  tail  moved  up  and  down, 
and  shone  with  silver  and  gold.  Round  his  neck  hung  a  little 
ribbon,  and  on  that  was  written,  **The  Emperor  of  Japan's 
Nightingale  is  poor  beside  that  of  the  Emperor  in  China.** 

"  That  is  capital !  *  said  they  all,  and  he  who  had  brought  the 
toy  bird  at  once  got  the  title  Imperial  Head-Nightingale-Bringer. 

*Now  they  must  sing  together:  what  a  duet  that  will  be!** 

And  so  they  had  to  sing  together;  but  it  did  not  sound  very 
well,  for  the  real  Nightingale  sang  in  its  own  way,  and  the  toy 
bird  sang  waltzes. 

*  That's  not  its  fault,**  said  the  Play-master:  *^it's  quite  per- 
fect, and  very  much  in  my  style.** 

Now  the  toy  bird  was  to  sing  alone.  It  made  just  as  much  of 
a  hit  as  the  real  one,  and  then  it  was  so  much  more  fine  to  look 
at^it  shone  like  bracelets  and  breastpins. 

Three-and-thirty  times  over  did  it  sing  the  same  piece,  and  yet 
was  not  tired.  The  people  would  gladly  have  heard  it  again,  but 
the  Emperor  said  that  the  living  Nightingale  ought  to  sing  a  little 
something.  But  where  was  it  ?  No  one  had  noticed  that  it  had 
flown  away,  out  of  the  open  window,  back  to  its  green  woods. 

**  But  what  is  become  of  it  ?  *  asked  the  Emperor, 

Then  all  the  courtiers  scolded,  and  thought  the  Nightingale 
was  a  very  thankless  creature. 

"We  have  the  best  bird,  after  all,**  said  they. 

And  so  the  toy  bird  had  to  sing  again,  and  this  was  the  thirty- 
fourth  time  they  had  listened  to  the  same  piece.  For  all  that, 
they  did  not  know  it  quite  by  heart,  for  it  was  so  very  difficult. 
And  the  Play-master  praised  the  bird  highly;  yes,  he  declared  that 
it  was  better  than  the  real  Nightingale,  not  only  in  its  feathers 
and  its  many  beautiful  diamonds,  but  inside  as  well. 

"  For  you  see,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  above  all,  your  Im- 
perial Majesty,  with  the  real  Nightingale  one  can  never  make 
sure  what  is  coming,  but  in  this  toy  bird  everything  is  settled.  It 
is  just  so,  and  not  any  other  way.  One  can  explain  it;  one  can 
open  it,  and  can  show  how  much  thought  went  to  making  it, 
where  the  waltzes  come  from,  how  they  go,  and  how  one  follows 
another.  ** 

"  Those  are  quite  our  own  ideas,  **  they  all  said.  And  the  Play- 
master  got  leave  to   show   the   bird  to   the   people   on   the   next 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN  h^I 

Sunday.  The  people  were  to  hear  it  sing  too,  said  the  Emperor; 
and  they  did  hear  it,  and  were  as  much  pleased  as  if  they  had  all 
had  tea,  for  that's  quite  the  Chinese  fashion;  and  they  all  said 
"  Oh !  ^^  and  held  their  forefingers  up  in  the  air  and  nodded.  But 
the  poor  Fisherman,  who  had  heard  the  real  Nightingale,  said:  — 

*^  It  sounds  pretty  enough,  and  it's  a  little  like,  but  there's 
something  wanting,  though  I  know  not  what !  * 

The  real  Nightingale  was  exiled  from  the  land  and  empire. 

The  toy  bird  had  its  place  on  a  silken  cushion  close  to  the 
Emperor's  bed.  All  the  presents  it  had  received,  gold  and  pre- 
cious stones,  were  ranged  about  it.  In  title  it  had  come  to  be 
High  Imperial  After-Dinner-Singer,  and  in  rank  it  was  Number 
One  on  the  left  hand;  for  the  Emperor  reckoned  that  side  the  most 
important  on  which  the  heart  is  placed,  and  even  in  an  Emperor 
the  heart  is  on  the  left  side.  And  the  Play-master  wrote  a  work 
of  five-and-twenty  volumes  about  the  toy  bird:  it  was  so  learned 
and  so  long,  full  of  the  most  difficult  Chinese  words,  that  all  the 
people  said  they  had  read  it  and  understood  it,  or  else  they  would 
have  been  thought  stupid,  and  would  have  had  their  bodies  tram- 
pled on. 

So  a  whole  year  went  by.  The  Emperor,  the  court,  and  all 
the  other  Chinese  knew  every  little  twitter  in  the  toy  bird's  song 
by  heart.  But  just  for  that  reason  it  pleased  them  best  —  they 
could  sing  with  it  themselves,  and  they  did  so.  The  street  boys 
sang,  « Tsi-tsi-tsi-glug-glug !  **  and  the  Emperor  himself  sang  it 
too.     Yes,  that  was  certainly  famous. 

But  one  evening,  when  the  toy  bird  was  singing  its  best,  and 
the  Emperor  lay  in  bed  and  heard  it,  something  inside  the  bird 
said,  "  Svup !  ^*  Something  cracked.  <<  Whir-r-r !  ^^  All  the  wheels 
ran  round,  and  then  the  music  stopped. 

The  Emperor  jumped  at  once  out  of  bed,  and  had  his  own 
doctor  called ;  but  what  could  he  do  ?  Then  they  sent  for  a  watch- 
maker, and  after  a  good  deal  of  talking  and  looking,  he  got  the 
bird  into  some  sort  of  order;  but  he  said  that  it  must  be  looked 
after  a  good  deal,  for  the  barrels  were  worn,  and  he  could  not 
put  new  ones  in  in  such  a  manner  that  the  music  would  go. 
There  was  a  great  to-do;  only  once  in  a  year  did  they  dare  to  let 
the  bird  sing,  and  that  was  almost  too  much.  But  then  the  Play- 
master  made  a  little  speech,  full  of  heavy  words,  and  said  this 
was  just  as  good  as  before  —  and  so,  of  coiirse,  it  was  as  good  as 
before. 


532  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


III  —  THE    REAL    NIGHTINGALE    AGAIN 

Five  years  had  gone  by,  and  a  real  grief  came  upon  the  whole 
nation.  The  Chinese  were  really  fond  of  their  Emperor,  and  now 
he  was  sick,  and  could  not,  it  was  said,  live  much  longer.  Al- 
ready a  new  Emperor  had  been  chosen,  and  the  people  stood  out 
in  the  street  and  asked  the  Cavalier  how  their  old  Emperor  did. 

"  P !  ^*  said  he,  and  shook  his  head. 

Cold  and  pale  lay  the  Emperor  in  his  great,  gorgeous  bed; 
the  whole  court  thought  him  dead,  and  each  one  ran  to  pay 
respect  to  the  new  ruler.  The  chamberlains  ran  out  to  talk  it 
over,  and  the  ladies'-maids  had  a  great  coffee  party.  All  about, 
in  all  the  halls  and  passages,  cloth  had  been  laid  down  so  that  no 
one  could  be  heard  go  by,  and  therefore  it  was  quiet  there,  quite 
quiet.  But  the  Emperor  was  not  dead  yet:  stiff  and  pale  he  lay 
on  the  gorgeous  bed  with  the  long  velvet  curtains  and  the  heavy 
gold  tassels;  high  up,  a  window  stood  open,  and  the  moon  shone 
in  upon  the  Emperor  and  the  toy  bird. 

The  poor  Emperor  could  scarcely  breathe;  it  was  just  as  if 
something  lay  upon  his  breast.  He  opened  his  eyes,  and  then  he 
saw  that  it  was  Death  who  sat  upon  his  breast,  and  had  put  on 
his  golden  crown,  and  held  in  one  hand  the  Emperor's  sword, 
and  in  the  other  his  beautiful  banner.  And  all  around,  from 
among  the  folds  of  the  splendid  velvet  curtains,  strange  heads 
peered  forth;  a  few  very  ugly,  the  rest  quite  lovely  and  mild. 
These  were  all  the  Emperor's  bad  and  good  deeds,  that  stood 
before  him  now  that  Death  sat  upon  his  heart. 

*  Do  you  remember  this  ?  **  whispered  one  to  the  other.  "  Do 
you  remember  that  ?  ^*  and  then  they  told  him  so  much  that  the 
sweat  ran  from  his  forehead. 

*' I  did  not  know  that!*^  said  the  Emperor.  ^^  Music!  music! 
the  great  Chinese  drum !  *^  he  cried,  **  so  that  I  need  not  hear  all 
they  say ! " 

And  they  kept  on,  and  Death  nodded  like  a  Chinaman  to  all 
they  said. 

^^  Music !  music !  **  cried  the  Emperor.  **  You  little  precious 
golden  bird,  sing,  sing!  I  have  given  you  gold  and  costly  pres- 
ents; I  have  even  hung  my  golden  slipper  around  your  neck  — 
sing  now,  sing !  " 

But  the  bird  stood  still, — no  one  was  there  to  wind  him  up, 
and  he  could  not  sing  without  that;    but  Death  kept  on  staring 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN  533 

at  the  Emperor  with  his  great  hollow  eyes,  and  it  was  quiet, 
fearfully  quiet. 

Then  there  sounded  close  by  the  window  the  most  lovely 
song.  It  was  the  little  live  Nightingale,  that  sat  outside  on  a 
spray.  It  had  heard  of  the  Emperor' s  need,  and  had  come  to 
sing  to  him  of  trust  and  hope.  And  as  it  sang  the  spectres  grew 
paler  and  paler;  the  blood  ran  more  and  more  quickly  through 
the  Emperor's  weak  limbs,  and  Death  himself  listened,  and 
said :  — 

"  Go  on,  little  Nightingale,  go  on !  ® 

"  But  will  you  give  me  that  splendid  golden  sword  ?  Will  you 
give  me  that  rich  banner  ?  Will  you  give  me  the  Emperor's 
crown  ?  *^ 

And  Death  gave  up  each  of  these  treasures  for  a  song.  And 
the  Nightingale  sang  on  and  on;  it  sang  of  the  quiet  church- 
yard where  the  white  roses  grow,  where  the  elder-blossom  smells 
sweet,  and  where  the  fresh  grass  is  wet  with  the  tears  of  mourn- 
ers. Then  Death  felt  a  longing  to  see  his  garden,  and  floated 
out  at  the  window  in  the  form  of  a  cold,  white  mist. 

*'  Thanks !  thanks !  *'  said  the  Emperor.  *^  You  heavenly  little 
bird!  I  know  you  well.  I  drove  you  from  my  land  and  empire, 
and  yet  you  have  charmed  away  the  evil  faces  from  my  bed,  and 
driven  Death  from  my  heart !     How  can  I  pay  you  ? " 

"You  have  paid  me!**  replied  the  Nightingale.  *I  drew  tears 
from  your  eyes,  the  first  time  I  sang — I  shall  never  forget  that. 
Those  are  the  jewels  that  make  a  singer's  heart  glad.  But  now 
sleep  and  grow  fresh  and  strong  again.  I  will  sing  you  some- 
thing. » 

And  it  sang,  and  the  Emperor  fell  into  a  sweet  sleep.  Ah! 
how  mild  and  refreshing  that  sleep  was!  The  sun  shone  upon 
him  through  the  windows,  when  he  awoke  strong  and  sound. 
Not  one  of  his  servants  had  yet  come  back,  for  they  all  thought 
that  he  was  dead;  but  the  Nightingale  still  sat  beside  him  and 
sang. 

"You  must  always  stay  with  me,**  said  the  Emperor.  "You 
shall  sing  as  you  please;  and  111  break  the  toy  bird  into  a  thou- 
sand pieces.** 

"Not  so,**  replied  the  Nightingale.  "It  did  well  as  long  as  it 
could;  keep  it  as  you  have  done  till  now.  I  cannot  build  my 
nest  in  the  palace  to  dwell  in  it,  but  let  me  come  when  I  feel 
the  wish;   then  I  will  sit  in  the  evening  on  the  spray  yonder  by 


534  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

the  window,  and  sing  for  you,  so  that  you  may  be  glad  and 
thoughtful  at  once.  I  will  sing  of  those  who  are  happy  and  of 
those  who  suffer.  I  will  sing  of  good  and  of  evil  that  remain 
hidden  round  about  you.  The  little  singing  bird  flies  far  around, 
to  the  poor  fisherman,  to  the  peasant's  roof,  to  every  one  who 
dwells  far  away  from  you  and  from  your  court,  I  love  your 
heart  more  than  your  crown,  and  yet  the  crown  has  an  air  of 
sanctity  about  it.  I  will  come  and  sing  to  you  —  but  one  thing 
you  must  promise  me.'* 

**  Everything !  *'  said  the  Emperor ;  and  he  stood  there  in  his 
royal  robes,  which  he  had  put  on  himself,  and  pressed  the  sword 
which  was  heavy  with  gold  to  his  heart. 

"  One  thing  I  beg  of  you :  tell  no  one  that  you  have  a  little 
bird  who  tells  you  everything.     Then  all  will  go  well.** 

And  the  Nightingale  flew  away. 

The  servants  came  in  to  look  on  their  dead  Emperor,  and  — 
yes,  there  he  stood,  and  the  Emperor  said,  ^^  Good-morning !  ** 


THE  MARKET  PLACE  AT  ODENSE  (1836) 
From  <  The  Story  of  My  Life  > 

IF  THE  reader  was  a  child  who  lived  in  Odense,  he  would  just 
need  to  say  the  words  "  St.    Knud's  Fair,  **  and  it  would  rise 

before  him  in  the  brightest  colors,  lighted  by  the  beams  of 
childish  fancy.  .  .  .  Somewhere  near  the  middle  of  the  town, 
five  streets  meet  and  make  a  little  square.  .  ,  .  There  the 
town  crier,  in  striped  homespun,  with  a  yellow  bandoleer,  beat  his 
drum  and  proclaimed  from  a  scroll  the  splendid  things  to  be  ^een 
in  the  town, 

■  "He  beats  a  good  drum,**  said  the  chamberlain. 

*  It  would  delight  Spontini  and  Rossini  to  hear  the  fellow,  ** 
said  William.  *  Really,  Odense  at  New  Year  would  just  suit 
these  composers.  The  drums  and  fifes  are  in  their  glory.  They 
drum  the  New  Year  in.  Seven  or  eight  little  drummers,  or  fifers, 
go  from  door  to  door,  with  troops  of  children  and  old  women, 
and  they  beat  the  drum-taps  and  the  reveille.  Xhat  fetches  the 
pennies.  Then  when  the  New  Year  is  well  drummed  in  the  city, 
the)^  go  into  the  country  and  drum  for  meat  and  pojTidge.  Th§ 
dnimmin^  iii  of  the  New  Year  lasts  until  Lent.*^ 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN  535 

*'  And  then  we  have  new  sports,  '*  said  the  chamberlain.  *^  The 
fishers  come  from  Stege  with  a  full  band,  and  on  their  shoulders 
a  boat  with  all  sorts  of  flags.  .  .  .  Then  they  lay  a  board 
between  two  boats,  and  on  this  two  of  the  youngest  and  spryest 
wrestle  till  one  falls  into  the  water.  .  .  .  But  all  the  fun's 
gone  now.  When  I  was  young,  there  was  different  sport  going. 
That  was  a  sight!  the  corporation  procession  with  the  banners 
and  the  harlequin  atop,  and  at  Shrovetide,  when  the  butchers  led 
about  an  ox  decked  with  ribbons  and  carnival  twigs,  with  a  boy 
on  his  back  with  wings  and  a  little  shirt.  .  .  .  All  that's  past 
now,  people  are  got  so  fine.  St.  Knud's  Fair  is  not  what  it  used 
to  be.» 

« Well,  I'm  glad  it  isn't,*  said  William;  "but  let  us  go  into 
the  market  and  look  at  the  Jutlanders,  who  are  sitting  with  their 
pottery  amidst  the  hay.* 

Just  as  the  various  professions  in  the  Middle  Ages  had  each 
its  quarter,  so  here  the  shoemakers  had  ranged  their  tables  side 
by  side,  and  behind  them  stood  the  skillful  workman  in  his  long 
coat,  and  with  his  well-brushed  felt  hat  in  his  hand.  Where  the 
shoemakers'  quarter  ended,  the  hatters'  began,  and  there  one  was 
in  the  midst  of  the  great  market  where  tents  and  booths  formed 
many  parallel  streets.  The  milliners,  the  goldsmiths,  the  pastry 
cooks,  with  booths  of  canvas  and  wood,  were  the  chief  attractions. 
Ribbons  and  handkerchiefs  fluttered.  Noise  and  bustle  was  every- 
where. The  girls  from  the  same  village  always  went  in  rows, 
seven  or  eight  inseparables,  with  hands  fast  clasped.  It  was 
impossible  to  break  the  chain;  and  if  you  tried  to  pass  through, 
the  whole  band  wound  itself  into  a  clump.-  Behind  the  booth  was 
a  great  space  with  wooden  shoes,  pottery,  turners'  and  saddlers* 
wares.  Rude  and  rough  toys  were  spread  on  tables.  Around 
them  children  were  trying  little  trumpets,  or  moving  about  the 
playthings.  Country  girls  twirled  and  twisted  the  work-boxes  and 
themselves  many  a  time  before  making  their  bargain.  The  air 
was  thick  and  heavy  with  odors  that  were  spiced  with  the  smell 
of  honey-cake. 

On  Fair  day,  St.  Knud's  Church  and  all  its  tombs  are  open  to 
the  public.  From  whatever  side  you  look  at  this  fine  old  build- 
ing it  has  something  imposing,  with  its  high  tower  and  spire. 
The  interior  produces  the  same,  perhaps  a  greater,  effect.  But 
its  full  impression  is  not  felt  on  entering  it,  nor  until  you  get  to 
the  main  aisle,    Ther^  ^11  is  gran4,  beautiful,  li^ht.    Ttje  whole 


536  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 

interior  is  bright  with  gilding.  Up  in  the  high  vaulted  roof  there 
shine,  since  old  time,  a  multitude  of  golden  stars.  On  both 
sides,  high  up  above  the  side  aisles,  are  great  gothic  windows 
from  which  the  light  streams  down.  The  side  aisles  are  painted 
with  oil  portraits,  whole  families,  women  and  children,  all  in  cler- 
ical dress,  with  long  gowns  and  deep  ruffs.  Usually  the  figures 
are  ranged  by  ages,  the  eldest  first  and  then  down  to  the  very 
smallest. 

They    all    stand    with    folded    hands,    and   look   piously  down 
before  them,  till  their  colors  have  gradually  faded  away  in  dust. 


THE  ANDERSEN  JUBILEE  AT  ODENSE 
From  <The  Story  of  My  Life> 

I  HEARD  on  the  morning  of  December  6th  [1867]  that  the  town 
was  decorated,  that  all  the  schools  had  a  holiday,  because  it 
was  my  festival.  I  felt  myself  as  humble,  meek,  and  poor  as 
though  I  stood  before  my  God.  Every  weakness  or  error  or  sin, 
in  thought,  word,  and  deed,  was  revealed  to  me.  All  stood  out 
strangely  clear  in  my  soul,  as  though  it  were  doomsday  —  and  it 
was  my  festival.  God  knows  how  humble  I  felt  when  men 
exalted  and  honored  me  so. 

Then  came  the  first  telegram  from  the  Student  Club.  I  saw 
that  they  shared  and  did  not  envy  my  joy.  Then  came  a  dis- 
patch from  a  private  club  of  students  in  Copenhagen,  and  from 
the  Artisans'  Club  of  Slagelse.  You  will  remember  that  I  went 
to  school  in  that  town,  and  was  therefore  attached  to  it.  Soon 
followed  messages  from  sympathetic  friends  in  Aarhuus,  in  Stege; 
telegram  on  telegram  from  all  around.  One  of  these  was  read 
aloud  by  Privy  Councillor  Koch.  It  was  from  the  king.  The 
assembly  burst  out  in  applause.  Every  cloud  and  shadow  in  my 
soul  vanished! 

How  happy  I  was!  And  yet  man  must  not  exalt  himself.  I 
was  to  feel  that  I  was  only  a  poor  child  of  humanity,  bound  by 
the  frailty  of  earth.  I  suffered  from  a  dreadful  toothache,  which 
was  increased  unbearably  by  the  heat  and  excitement.  Yet  at 
evening  I  read  a  Wonder  Story  for  the  little  friends.  Then  the 
deputation  came  from  the  town  corporations,  with  torches  and 
waving  banners  through  the  street,  to  the  guild-hall.  And  now 
the  prophecy  was  to  be  fulfilled  tJiat  the  old  woman  gave  when 


HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


537 


I  left  home  as  a  boy.  Odense  was  to  be  illuminated  for  me. 
I  stepped  to  the  open  window.  All  was  aglow  with  torchlight, 
the  square  was  filled  with  people.  Songs  swelled  up  to  me. 
I  was  overcome,  emotionally.  Physically  racked  with  pain,  I  could 
not  enjoy  this  crowning  fruit  of  my  life,  the  toothache  was  so 
intolerable.  The  ice-cold  air  that  blew  against  me  fanned  the 
pain  to  an  awful  intensity,  and,  instead  of  enjoying  the  bliss 
of  these  never-to-be-repeated  moments,  I  looked  at  the  printed 
song  to  see  how  many  verses  had  to  be  sung  before  I  could  step 
away  from  the  torture  which  the  cold  air  sent  through  my  teeth. 
It  was  the  acme  of  suffering.  As  the  glow  of  the  piled-up 
torches  subsided,  my  pain  subsided  too.  How  thankful  I  was, 
though!  Gentle  eyes  were  fastened  upon  me  all  around.  All 
wanted  to  speak  with  me,  to  press  my  hand.  Tired  out,  I 
reached  the  bishop's  house  and  sought  rest.  But  I  got  no  sleep 
till  toward  morning,  so  filled  and  overflowing  was  I. 


<  MISERERE  >    IN   THE   SIXTINE   CHAPEL 
From  <The  Improvisatore  > :  Translation  by  Mary  Hewitt 

ON  Wednesday  afternoon  began  the  Miserere  in  the  Sixtine 
Chapel.  My  soul  longed  for  music;  in  the  world  of  mel- 
ody I  could  find  sympathy  and  consolation.  The  throng 
was  great,  even  within  the  chapel  —  the  foremost  division  was 
already  filled  with  ladies.  Magnificent  boxes,  hung  with  velvet 
and  golden  draperies  for  royal  personages  and  foreigners  from 
various  courts,  were  here  erected  so  high  that  they  looked  out 
beyond  the  richly  carved  railing  which  separated  the  ladies  from 
the  interior  of  the  chapel.  The  papal  Swiss  Guards  stood  in 
their  bright  festal  array.  The  officers  wore  light  armor,  and  in 
their  helmets  a  waving  plume.  .  .  .  The  old  cardinals  entered 
in  their  magnificent  scarlet  velvet  cloaks,  with  their  white  ermine 
capes,  and  seated  themselves  side  by  side  in  a  great  half-circle 
within  the  barrier,  while  the  priests  who  had  carried  their  trains 
seated  themselves  at  their  feet.  By  the  little  side  door  of  the 
altar  the  holy  father  now  entered,  in  his  scarlet  mantle  and  silver 
tiara.  He  ascended  his  throne.  Bishops  swung  the  vessels  of 
incense  around  him,  while  young  priests,  in  scarlet  vestments, 
knelt,  with  lighted  torches  in  their  hands,  before  him  and  the 
high  altar, 


538 


HANS  CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN 


The  reading  of  the  lessons  began.  But  it  was  impossible  to 
keep  the  eyes  fixed  on  the  lifeless  letters  of  the  Missal  —  they 
raised  themselves,  with  the  thoughts,  to  the  vast  universe  which 
Michael  Angelo  has  breathed  forth  in  colors  upon  the  ceiling  and 
the  walls.  I  contemplated  his  mighty  sibyls  and  wondrously 
glorious  prophets, —  every  one  of  them  a  subject  for  a  painting. 
My  eyes  drank  in  the  magnificent  processions,  the  beautiful 
grovips  of  angels;  they  were  not,  to  me,  painted  pictures;  —  all 
stood  living  before  me.  The  rich  tree  of  knowledge,  from  which 
Eve  gave  the  fruit  to  Adam;  the  Almighty  God,  who  floated 
over  the  waters, —  not  borne  up  by  angels,  as  the  older  masters 
had  represented  him  —  no,  the  company  of  angels  rested  upon 
him  and  his  fluttering  garments.  It  is  true,  I  had  seen  these 
pictures  before,  but  never  as  now  had  they  seized  upon  me.  My 
excited  state  of  mind,  the  crowd  of  people,  perhaps  even  the 
lyric  of  my  thoughts,  made  me  wonderfully  alive  to  poetical 
impressions;  and  many  a  poet's  heart  has  felt  as  mine  did! 

The  bold  foreshortenings,  the  determinate  force  with  which 
every  figure  steps  forward,  is  amazing,  and  carries  one  quite 
away!  It  is  a  spiritual  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  in  color  and  form. 
Like  Raphael,  we  stand  in  astonishment  before  the  power  of 
Michael  Angelo,  Every  prophet  is  a  Moses,  like  that  which  he 
formed  in  marble.  What  giant  forms  are  those  which  seize  upon 
our  eye  and  our  thoughts  as  we  enter!  But  when  intoxicated 
with  this  view,  let  us  turn  our  eyes  to  the  background  of  the 
chapel,  whose  whole  wall  is  a  high  altar  of  art  and  thought. 
The  great  chaotic  picture,  from  the  floor  to  the  roof,  shows  itself 
there  like  a  jewel,  of  which  all  the  rest  is  only  the  setting.  We 
see  there  the  Last  Judgment. 

Christ  stands  in  judgment  upon  the  clouds,  and  his  Mother 
and  the  Apostles  stretch  forth  their  hands  beseechingly  tor  the 
poor  human  race.  The  dead  raise  the  gravestones  under  which 
they  have  lain;  blessed  spirits  adoring,  float  upward  to  God, 
while  the  abyss  seizes  its  victims.  Here  one  of  the  ascending 
spirits  seeks  to  save  his  condemned  brother,  whom  the  abyss 
already  embraces  in  its  snaky  folds.  The  children  of  despair 
strike  their  clenched  fists  upon  their  brows,  and  sink  into  the 
depths!  In  bold  foreshortenings,  float  and  tumble  whole  legions 
between  heaven  and  earth.  The  sympathy  of  the  angels,  the 
expression  of  lovers  who  meet,  the  child  that  at  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet  clings  to  the  mother's  breast,  are  so  natural  and  t>eatitiful 


ANEURIN 


539 


that  one  believes  one's  self  to  be  among  those  who  are  waiting 
for  judgment.  Michael  Angelo  has  expressed  in  colors  what 
Dante  saw  and  has  sung  to  the  generations  of  the  earth. 

The  descending  sun  at  that  moment  threw  his  last  beams  in 
through  the  uppermost  window.  Christ,  and  the  blessed  around 
him,  were  strongly  lighted  up;  while  the  lower  part,  where  the 
dead  arose,  and  the  demons  thrust  their  boat  laden  with  the 
damned  from  the  shore,  were  almost  in  darkness. 

Just  as  the  sun  went  down  the  last  lesson  was  ended,  the 
last  light  which  now  remained  was  extinguished,  and  the  whole 
picture  world  vanished  in  the  gloom  from  before  me;  but  in  that 
same  moment  burst  forth  music  and  singing.  That  which  color 
had  bodily  revealed  arose  now  in  sound;  the  day  of  judgment, 
with  its  despair  and  its  exultation,  resounded  above  us. 

The  father  of  the  church,  stripped  of  his  papal  pomp,  stood 
before  the  altar,  and  prayed  to  the  holy  cross;  and  upon  the 
wings  of  the  trumpet  resounded  the  trembling  choir,  *  Populus 
mens  quid  feci  tibi  ?  *  Soft  angel-tones  rose  above  the  deep 
song,  tones  which  ascended  not  from  a  human  breast:  it  was  not 
a  man's  nor  a  woman's;  it  belonged  to  the  world  of  spirits:  it 
was  like  the  weeping  of  angels  dissolved  in  melody. 


ANEURIN 

(Sixth  Century  A.  D.) 

jMONG  the  triad  of  singers  —  Llywarch,  prince  and  bard,  Aneu- 
rin,  warrior  and  bard,  and  Taliessin,  bard  only  —  who  were 
among  the  followers  of  the  heroic  British  chief  Urien,  when 
he  bravely  but  unsuccessfully  resisted  the  invasion  of  the  victorious 
Angles  and  Saxons,  Aneurin  was  famous  both  as  poet  and  warrior. 
He  sang  of  the  long  struggle  that  eventually  was  to  turn  Briton  into 
England,  and  celebrated  in  his  *  Gododin  ^  ninety  of  the  fallen  Cymric 
chiefs.  The  notes  of  his  life  are  scanty,  and  are  drawn  chiefly  from 
his  allusion  to  himself  in  his  poem.  He  was  the  son  of  Cwm  Caw- 
Iwyd,  a  chief  of  the  tribe  of  Gododin.  He  seems  to  have  been 
educated  at  St.  Cadoc's  College  at  Llancarvan,  and  afterwards  entered 
the  bardic  order.  As  appears  from  the  <  Gododin,  >  he  was  present  at 
the  battle  of  Cattreeth  both  as  bard  and  as  priest.    He  fled,  but  was 


540 


ANEURIN 


taken  prisoner.  In  his  poem  he  refers  to  the  hardships  he  endured  in 
his  captivity.  After  his  release  he  returned  to  Llancarvan,  Wales, 
and  in  his  old  age  he  went  north  to  live  with  his  brother  in  Gallo- 
way. Here  he  was  murdered;  his  death  is  referred  to  as  one  of  the 
<*  three  accursed  hatchet-strokes  of  the  isle  of  Britain.  >'  His  friendship 
with  Taliessin  is  commemorated  by  both  bards. 

The  *  Gododin  *  is  at  once  the  longest  and  the  most  important 
composition  in  early  Welsh  literature.  It  has  been  variously  inter- 
preted, but  is  thought  to  celebrate  the  battle  of  Cattrasth.  This  battle 
was  fought  in  570  between  the  Britons,  who  had  formed  a  league  to 
defend  their  country,  and  their  Teutonic  invaders.  It  <<  began  on  a 
Tuesday,  lasted  for  a  week,  and  ended  with  great  slaughter  of  the 
Britons,  who  fought  desperately  till  they  perished  on  the  field.  >> 
Three  hundred  and  sixty  chieftains  were  slain;  only  three  escaped  by 
flight,  among  whom  was  Aneurin,  who  afterwards  commemorated  the 
slaughter  in  the  ^Gododin,*  a  lament  for  the  dead.  Ninety-seven  of 
the  stanzas  remain.  In  various  measures  of  alliterative  and  assonant 
verse  they  sing  the  praises  of  ninety  of  the  fallen  chiefs,  usually 
giving  one  stanza  to  each  hero.  One  of  these  stanzas  is  known  to 
readers  of  Gray,  who  translated  it  under  the  name  of  <  The  Death  of 
Hoel.> 

Again  the  *  Gododin  *  is  assumed  to  be,  like  many  early  epic 
poems  whose  origin  is  wrapped  in  mystery,  not  the  commemoration 
of  one  single,  particular  event,  but  a  collection  of  lays  composed  at 
various  times,  which  compresses  into  one  battle  the  long  and  disas- 
trous period  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  invasion,  ending  in  the  subjugation 
of  the  Britons. 

But  whatever  its  history,  the  <  Gododin '  is  one  of  the  finest  monu- 
ments of  Cymric  literature.  *  In  the  brevity  of  the  narrative,  the 
careless  boldness  of  the  actors  as  they  present  themselves,  the  con- 
densed energy  of  the  action,  and  the  fierce  exultation  of  the  slaughter, 
together  with  the  recurring  elegiac  note,  this  poem  (or  poems  if  it 
be  the  work  of  two  authors)  has  some  of  the  highest  epic  qualities. 
The  ideas  and  manners  are  in  harmony  with  the  age  and  the  country 
to  which  it  is  referred.'^ 

Like  all  early  songs,  the  poem  was  handed  down  through  cen- 
turies by  oral  tradition.  It  is  now  preserved  in  the  *  Book  of  An- 
eurin,* a  small  quarto  manuscript  of  nineteen  leaves  of  vellum,  of 
the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century. 

The  *  Gododin*  has  been  published  with  an  English  translation 
and  notes  by  the  Rev.  J.  Williams  (1852);  and  by  the  Cymmrodorion 
Society,  with  a  translation  by  Thomas  Stevens,  in  1885.  Interesting 
information  covering  it  may  be  found  in  Skene's  *Four  Ancient  Books 
of  Wales*  (1866).  and  in  the  article   *  Celtic  Literature*  in   this  work. 


ANEURIN  541 


THE  SLAYING   OF   OWAIN 

[During  the  battle  a  conference  was  held,  at  which  the  British  leaders 
demanded  as  a  condition  of  peace  that  part  of  the  land  of  Gododin  be  restored. 
In  reply,  the  Saxons  killed  Owain,  one  of  the  greatest  of  the  Cymric  bards. 
Aneurin  thus  pictures  him :  — ] 

A  MAN  in  thought,  a  boy  in  form, 
He  stoutly  fought,  and  sought  the  storm 
Of  flashing  war  that  thundered  far. 
His  courser,  lank  and  swift,  thick-maned, 
Bore  on  his  flank,  as  on  he  strained. 
The  light-brown  shield,  as  on  he  sped, 
"With  golden  spur,  in  cloak  of  fur. 
His  blue  sword  gleaming.     Be  there  said 
No  word  of  mine  that  does  not  hold  thee  dear! 
Before  thy  youth  had  tasted  bridal  cheer. 
The  red  death  was  thy  bride!     The  ravens  feed 
On  thee  yet  straining  to  the  front,  to  lead. 
Owain,  tjie  friend  I  loved,  is  dead! 
Woe  is  it  that  on  him  the  ravens  feed! 


THE   FATE   OF  HOEL,  SON   OF  THE   GREAT  CIAN 

[From  various  expressions  used  by  Aneurin  in  different  parts  of  his  great 
poem,  it  is  evident  that  the  warriors  of  whom  he  sang  fortified  themselves, 
before  entering  the  field  of  battle,  with  unstinted  libations  of  that  favorite 
intoxicant  of  those  days,  sweet  mead.  He  mentions  the  condition  of  the  war- 
riors as  they  started  for  the  fray,  and  tells  of  Hoel's  fate.  This  son  of  Cian 
had  married  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  Bryneish.  His  marriage  caused  no 
abatement  of  a  feud  existing  between  the  tribes  to  which  the  husband  and 
wife  respectively  belonged.  He  repudiated  her  family,  disdained  to  take  her 
away,  and  was  sought  and  slain  by  her  insulted  father.] 

THE  warriors  marched  to  Cattraeth,  full  of  mead; 
Drunken,  but  firm  of  array:  great  the  shame. 
But  greater  the  valor  no  bard  can  defame. 
The  war-dogs  fought  fiercely,  red  swords  seemed  to  bleed. 
Flesh  and   soul,  I  had   slain  thee,  myself,  had   I  thought. 
Son   of  Cian,  my  friend,  that  thy  faith  had  been  bought 
By  a  bribe  from  the  tribe  of  the  Bryneish!     But  no; 
He  scorned  to  take  dowry  from  hands  of  the  foe. 
And  I,  all  unhurt,  lost  a  friend  in  the  fight, 
Whom  the  wrath  of  a  father  felled  down  for  the  slight. 


542  ANEURIN 


THE  GIANT  GWRVELING  FALLS  AT  LAST 

[The  bard  tells  the  story  of  Gwrveling*s  revelry,  impulsive   oravery,  and 
5nal  slaughter  of  the  foe  before  yielding  to  their  prowess.] 

LIGHT  of  lights  —  the  sun, 
Leader  of  the  day. 
First  to  rise  and  run 
His  appointed  way. 
Crowned  with  many  a  ray. 

Seeks  the  British  sky; 
Sees  the  flight's  dismay. 
Sees  the  Britons  fly. 
The  horn  in  Eiddin's  hall 

Had  sparkled  with  the  wine, 
And  thither,  at  a  call 

To  drink  and  be  divine. 
He  went,  to  share  the  feast 

Of  reapers,  wine  and  mead. 
He  drank,  and  so  increased 
His  daring  for  wild  deed. 
The  reapers  sang  of  war 

That  lifts  its  shining  wings. 
Its  shining  wings  of  fire. 
Its  shields  that  flutter  far. 
The  bards,  too,  sang  of  war. 
Of  plumed  and  crested  war; 
The  song  rose  ever  higher. 
Not  a  shield 
Escapes  the  shock, 

To  the  field 
They  fiercely  flock, — 
There  to  fall. 
But  of  all 
Who  struck  on  giant  Gwrveling, 
Whom  he  would  he  struck  again. 
All  he  struck  in  erave  were  lain, 
Ere  the  bearers  came  to  bring 
To  his  grave  stout  Gwrveling. 


S43 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE 

BY  ROBERT  SHARP 

!he  earliest  recorded  utterances  of  a  race,  whether  in  poetry 
or  in  prose,  become  to  the  representatives  of  this  race  in 
later  days  a  treasure  beyond  price.  The  value  of  such 
monuments  of  the  remote  past  is  manifold.  In  them  we  first  begin 
to  become  really  acquainted  with  ancestors  of  the  people  of  to-day, 
even  though  we  may  have  read  in  the  pages  of  earlier  writers  of 
alien  descent  much  that  is  of  great  concurrent  interest.  Through  the 
medium  of  the  native  saga,  epic,  and  meagre  chronicle,  we  see  for 
the  first  time  their  real  though  dim  outlines,  moving  in  and  out  of 
the  mists  that  obscure  the  dawn  of  history;  and  these  outlines 
become  more  and  more  distinct  as  the  literary  remains  of  succeed- 
ing periods  become  more  abundant  and  present  more  varied  aspects 
of  life.  "We  come  gradually  to  know  whajt  manner  of  men  and 
women  were  these  ancestors,  what  in  peace  and  in  war  were  their 
customs,  what  their  family  and  social  relations,  their  food  and  drink, 
their  dress,  their  systems  of  law  and  government,  their  religion  and 
morals,  what  were  their  art  instincts,  what  were  their  ideals. 

This  is  essential  material  for  the  construction  of  history  in  its 
complete  sense.  And  this  evidence,  when  subjected  to  judicious  crit- 
icism, is  trustworthy;  for  the  ancient  story-teller  and  poet  reflects 
the  customs  and  ideas  and  ideals  of  his  own  time,  even  though  the 
combination  of  agencies  and  the  preternatural  proportions  of  the 
actors  and  their  deeds  belong  to  the  imagination.  The  historian 
must  know  how  to  supplement  and  to  give  life  and  interest  to  the 
colorless  succession  of  dates,  names,  and  events  of  the  chronicler,  by 
means  of  these  imaginative  yet  truth-bearing  creations  of  the  poet. 

Remnants  of  ancient  poetry  and  legend  have  again  an  immediate 
value  in  proportion  as  they  exhibit  a  free  play  of  fine  imagination; 
that  is,  according  as  they  possess  the  power  of  stirring  to  response 
the  aesthetic  feeling  of  subsequent  ages,  —  as  they  possess  the  true 
poetic  quality.  This  gift  of  imagination  varies  greatly  among  races 
as  amoTig  individuals,  and  the  earliest  manifestations  of  it  frequently 
throw  a  clear  light  upon  apparently  eccentric  tendencies  developed 
in  a  literature  in  later  times. 

For  these  reasons,  added  to  a  natural  family  pride  in  them,  the 
early  literary  monuments  of  the  Anglo-Saxons  should  be  cherished 
by  us  as  among  the  most  valued  possessions  of  the  race. 


544 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE 


The  first  Teutonic  language  to  be  reduced  to  writing  was  the 
Moeso-Gothic.  Considerable  portions  of  a  translation  of  the  Bible 
into  that  language,  made  by  Bishop  Ulfilas  in  the  fourth  century, 
still  remain.  But  this  cannot  be  called  the  beginning  of  a  literature; 
for  there  is  no  trace  of  original  creative  impulse.  The  Gothic  move- 
ment, too,  seems  to  have  ceased  immediately  after  its  beginning.  It 
is  elsewhere  that  we  must  seek  for  the  rise  of  a  real  Teutonic  litera- 
ture. We  shall  not  find  it  till  after  the  lapse  of  several  centuries; 
and  we  find  it  not  among  the  tribes  that  remained  in  the  fatherland, 
nor  with  those  that  had  broken  into  and  conquered  parts  of  the 
Roman  empire,  only  to  be  absorbed  and  to  blend  with  other  races 
into  Romanic  nations.  The  proud  distinction  belongs  to  the  Low 
German  tribes  that  had  created  an  England  in  Britain. 

The  conquest  of  Britain  by  the  Anglo-Saxons,  begun  in  449, 
seemed  at  first  to  promise  only  retrogression  and  the  ruin  of  an 
existing  civilization.  These  fierce  barbarians  found  among  the  Celts 
of  Britain  a  Roman  culture,  and  the  Christian  religion  exerting  its 
influence  for  order  and  humanity.  Their  mission  seemed  to  be  to 
destroy  both.  In  their  original  homes  in  the  forests  of  northern 
Germany,  they  had  come  little  if  at  all  into  contact  with  Roman  civ- 
ilization. At  any  rate,  we  may  assume  that  they  had  felt  no  Roman 
influence  capable  of  stemming  their  national  and  ethnical  tendencies. 
We  cannot  yet  solve  the  difficult  problem  of  the  extent  of  their 
mingling  with  the  conquered  Celts  in  Britain.  In  spite  of  learned 
opinions  to  the  contrary,  the  evidence  now  available  seems  to  point 
to  only  a  small  infusion  of  Celtic  blood.  The  conquerors  seem  to 
have  settled  down  to  their  new  homes  with  all  the  heathenism  and 
most  of  the  barbarism  they  had  brought  from  their  old  home,  a 
Teutonic  people  still. 

In  these  ruthless,  plundering  barbarians,  whose  very  breath  was 
battle,  and  who  seemed  for  the  time  the  very  genius  of  disorder  and 
ruin,  there  existed,  nevertheless,  potentialities  of  humanity,  order, 
and  enlightenment  far  exceeding  those  of  the  system  they  displaced. 
In  all  their  barbarism  there  was  a  certain  nobility;  their  courage  was 
unflinching;  the  fidelity,  even  unto  death,  of  thane  to  lord,  repaid 
the  open-handed  generosity  of  lord  to  thane ;  they  honored  truth ; 
and  even  after  we  allow  for  the  exaggerated  claims  made  for  a 
chivalrous  devotion  that  did  not  exist,  we  find  that  they  held  their 
women  in  higher  respect  than  was  usual  even  among  many  more 
enlightened  peoples. 

There  are  few  more  remarkable  narratives  in  history  than  that  of 
the  facility  and  enthusiasm  with  which  the  Anglo-Saxons,  a  people 
conservative  then  as  now  to  the  degree  of  extreme  obstinacy,  accepted 
Christianity  and  the  new  learning  which  followed  in  the  train  of  the 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERA'^URE 


545 


new  religion.  After  a  few  lapses  into  paganism  in  some  localities,  we 
find  these  people,  who  lately  had  swept  Christian  Britain  with  fire  and 
sword,  themselves  became  most  zealous  followers  of  Christ.  Under 
the  influence  of  the  Roman  missionaries  who,  under  St.  Augustine, 
had  begun  their  work  in  the  south  in  597  among  the  Saxons  and 
Jutes,  and  under  the  combined  influence  of  Irish  and  Roman  mission- 
aries in  the  north  and  east  among  the  Angles,  theological  and  secular 
studies  were  pursued  with  avidity.  By  the  end  of  the  seventh  century 
we  find  Anglo-Saxon  missionaries,  with  St.  Boniface  at  their  head, 
carrying  Christianity  and  enlightenment  to  the  pagan  German  tribes 
on  the  Continent. 

The  torch  had  been  passed  to  the  Anglo-Saxon,  and  a  new  centre 
of  learning,  York, — the  old  Roman  capital,  now  the  chief  city  of  the 
Northumbrian  Angles, — became  famous  throughout  Europe.  Indeed, 
York  seemed  for  a  time  the  chief  hope  for  preserving  and  advancing 
Christian  culture;  for  the  danger  of  a  relapse  into  dense  ignorance 
had  become  imminent  in  the  rest  of  Europe.  Bede,  bom  about  673,  a 
product  of  this  Northumbrian  culture,  represented  the  highest  learning 
of  his  day.  He  wrote  a  vast  number  of  works  in  Latin,  treating 
nearly  all  the  branches  of  knowledge  existing  in  his  day.  Alcuin, 
another  Northumbrian,  bom  about  735,  was  called  by  Charlemagne 
to  be  tutor  for  himself  and  his  children,  and  to  organize  the  educa- 
tional system  of  his  realm.  Other  great  names  might  be  added  to 
show  the  extent  and  brilliancy  of  the  new  learning.  It  was  more 
remarkable  among  the  Angles;  and  only  at  a  later  day,  when  the 
g^eat  schools  of  the  north  had  gone  up  in  fire  and  smoke  in  the  piti- 
less invasion  of  the  Northmen,  did  the  West  Saxons  become  the 
leaders,  almost  the  only  representatives,  of  the  literary  impulse 
among  the  Anglo-Saxons. 

It  is  significant  that  the  first  written  English  that  we  know  of 
contains  the  first  Christian  English  king's  provision  for  peace  and 
order  in  his  kingdom.  The 'laws  of  Athelbert,  King  of  Kent,  who 
died  in  616,  were  written  down  early  in  the  seventh  century.  This 
code,  as  it  exists,  is  the  oldest  surviving  monument  of  English  prose. 
The  laws  of  Ine,  King  of  the  West  Saxons,  were  put  into  writing 
about  690.  These  collections  can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  a  literary 
value;  but  they  are  of  the  utmost  importance  as  throwing  light  upon 
the  early  customs  of  our  race,  and  the  laws  of  Ine  may  be  consid- 
ered as  the  foundation  of  modern  English  law.  Many  of  these  laws 
were  probably  much  older;  but  they  were  now  first  codified  and 
systematically  enforced.  The  language  employed  is  direct,  almost 
crabbed;  but  occasionally  the  Anglo-Saxon  love  of  figure  shows  itself. 
To  illustrate,  I  quote,  after  Brooke,  from  Earle's  *  Anglo-Saxon  Liter- 
ature,* page  153; — 

1—35 


540 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 


«In  case  any  one  bum  a  tree  in  a  wood,  and  it  came  to  light  who  did  it, 
let  him  pay  the  full  penalty,  and  give  sixty  shillings,  because  fire  is  a  thief. 
If  one  fell  in  a  wood  ever  so  many  trees,  and  it  be  found  out  afterwards,  let 
him  pay  for  three  trees,  each  with  thirty  shillings.  He  is  not  required  to  pay 
for  more  of  them,  however  many  they  may  be,  because  the  axe  is  a  reporter, 
and  not  a  thief  ?^     [The  italicized  sentences  are  evidently  current  sayings.] 

But  even  these  remains,  important  and  interesting  as  they  are, 
may  not  be  called  the  beginning  of  a  vernacular  literature.  It  is 
among  the  Angles  of  Northumbria  that  we  shall  find  the  earliest 
native  and  truly  literary  awakening  in  England.  Here  we  perceive 
the  endeavor  to  do  something  more  than  merely  to  aid  the  memory 
of  men  in  preserving  necessary  laws  and  records  of  important  events. 
The  imagination  had  become  active.  The  impulse  was  felt  to  give 
expression  to  deep  emotions,  to  sing  the  deeds  and  noble  character 
of  some  hero  embodying  the  loftiest  ideals  of  the  time  and  the  race, 
to  utter  deep  religious  feeling.  There  was  an  effort  to  do  this  in  a 
form  showing  harmony  in  theme  and  presentation.  Here  we  find 
displayed  a  feeling  for  art,  often  crude,  but  still  a  true  and  native 
impulse.  This  activity  produced  or  gave  definite  form  to  the  earliest 
Anglo-Saxon  poetry,  a  poetry  often  of  a  very  high  quality;  perhaps 
never  of  the  highest,  but  always  of  intense  interest.  We  may  claim 
even  a  greater  distinction  for  the  early  fruit  of  Anglo-Saxon  inspira- 
tion. Mr.  Stopford  Brooke  says:  —  "With  the  exception  of  perhaps 
a  few  Welsh  and  Irish  poems,  it  is  the  only  vernacular  poetry  in 
Europe,  outside  of  the  classic  tongues,  which  belongs  to  so  early  a 
time  as  the  seventh  and  eighth  centuries.* 

The  oldest  of  these  poems  belong  in  all  save  their  final  form  to 
the  ancient  days  in  Northern  Germany.  They  bear  evidence  of  trans- 
mission, with  varying  details,  from  gleeman  to  gleeman,  till  they  were 
finally  carried  over  to  England  and  there  edited,  often  with  discordant 
interpolations  and  modifications,  by  Christian  scribes.  Tacitus  tells 
us  that  at  his  time  songs  or  poems  were  a  marked  feature  in  the  life 
of  the  Germans;  but  we  cannot  trace  the  clue  further.  To  these 
more  ancient  poems  many  others  were  added  by  Christian  Northum- 
brian poets,  and  we  find  that  a  large  body  of  poetry  had  grown  up 
in  the  North  before  the  movement  was  entirely  arrested  by  the  de- 
stroying Northmen.  Not  one  of  these  poems,  unless  we  except  a  few 
fragmentary  verses,  has  come  down  to  us  in  the  Northumbrian  dialect. 
Fortunately  they  had  been  transcribed  by  the  less  poetically  gifted 
West  Saxons  into  theirs,  and  it  is  in  this  form  that  we  possess  them. 

This  poetry  shows  in  subject  and  in  treatment  very  considerable 
range.  We  have  a  great  poem,  epic  in  character;  poems  partly  nar- 
rative and  partly  descriptive;  poems  that  may  be  classed  as  lyric  or 
elegiac  in  character;  a  large  body  of  verse  containing  a  paraphrase 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 


547 


of  portions  of  the  Bible :  a  collection  of  *  Riddles  * ;  poems  on  animals; 
with  morals;  and  others  difficult  to  classify. 

The  regTilar  verse-form  was  the  alliterative,  four-accent  line,  broken 
by  a  strongly  marked  caesura  into  two  half-lines,  which  were  in  early 
editions  printed  as  short  lines.  The  verse  was  occasionally  extended 
to  six  accents.  In  the  normal  verse  there  were  two  alliterated  words 
in  the  first  half  of  the  line,  each  of  which  received  a  strong  accent; 
in  the  second  half  there  was  one  accented  word  in  alliteration  with 
the  alliterated  words  in  the  first  half,  and  one  other  accented  word 
not  in  alliteration.  A  great  license  was  allowed  as  to  the  number  of 
unaccented  syllables,  and  as  to  their  position  in  regard  to  the  accented 
ones;  and  this  lent  great  freedom  and  vigor  to  the  verse.  When 
well  constructed  and  well  read,  it  must  have  been  very  effective. 
There  were  of  course  many  variations  from  the  normal  number, 
three,  of  alliterated  words,  as  it  would  be  impossible  to  find  so  many 
for  every  line. 

Something  of  the  quality  of  this  verse-form  may  be  felt  in  trans- 
lations which  aim  at  the  same  effect.  Notice  the  result  in  the  follow- 
ing from  Professor  Gummere's  version  of  as  election  from  ^Beowulf  *: — 

«Then  the  warriors  went,  as  the  way  was  showed  to  them. 
Under  Heorot's  roof;  the  hero  stepped, 
Hardy  'neath  helm,  till  the  hearth  he  neared.» 

In  these  verses  it  will  be  noted  that  the  alliteration  is  complete 
in  the  first  and  third,  and  that  in  the  second  it  is  incomplete. 

A  marked  feature  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  poetry  is  parallelism,  or  the 
repetition  of  an  idea  by  means  of  new  phrases  or  epithets,  most  fre- 
quently within  the  limits  of  a  single  sentence.  This  proceeds  from 
the  desire  to  emphasize  attributes  ascribed  to  the  deity,  or  to  some 
person  or  object  prominent  in  the  sentence.  But  while  the  added 
epithets  have  often  a  cumulative  force,  and  are  picturesque,  yet  it 
must  be  admitted  that  they  sometimes  do  not  justify  their  introduc- 
tion. This  may  be  best  illustrated  by  an  example.  The  following, 
in  the  translation  of  Earle,  is  Caedmon's  first  hymn,  composed  between 
658  and  680,  and  the  earliest  piece  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry  that  we 
know  to  have  had  its  origin  in  England:  — 

«Now  shall  we  glorify  the  guardian  of  heaven's  realm. 
The  Maker's  might  and  the  thought  of  his  mind; 
The  work  of  the  Glory-Father,  how  He  of  every  wonder. 

He,  the  Lord  eternal,  laid  the  foundation. 

He  shaped  erst  for  the  sons  of  men 

HeaVen,  their  roof,  Holy  Creator; 

The  middle  world.  He,  mankind's  sovereign. 

Eternal  captain,  afterwards  created, 

The  land  for  men.  Lord  Almighty.* 


548  ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 

Many  of  the  figurative  expressions  are  exceedingly  vigorous  and 
poetic;  some  to  our  taste  not  so  much  so.  Note  the  epithets  in  <<the 
lank  wolf,'*  <<the  wan  raven,*'  <<bird  greedy  for  slaughter,**  <<the  dewy- 
winged  eagle,**  "dusky-coated,**  "crooked-beaked,**  "horny-beaked,** 
"the  maid,  fair-cheeked,**  "curly-locked,**  "elf-bright.**  To  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  poet,  much  that  we  call  metaphorical  was  scarcely  more  than 
literal  statement.  As  the  object  pictured  itself  to  his  responsive 
imagination,  he  expressed  it  with  what  was  to  him  a  direct  realism. 
His  lines  are  filled  with  a  profusion  of  metaphors  of  every  degree  of 
effectiveness.  To  him  the  sea  was  "the  water-street,**  "the  swan- 
path,**  "the  strife  of  the  waves,**  "the  whale-path**;  the  ship  was 
"the  foamy-necked  floater,**  "the  wave-f arer, **  "the  sea- wood,**  "the 
sea-horse  ** ;  the  arrow  was  "  the  battle  adder  ** ;  the  battle  was  "  spear- 
play,**  "sword-play**;  the  prince  was  "the  ring-giver,**  "the  gold- 
friend  ** ;  the  throne  was  "  the  gift-stool  ** ;  the  body,  "  the  bone-house  ** ; 
the  mind,  "the  breast-hoard.** 

Indeed,  as  it  has  been  pointed  out  by  many  writers,  the  metaphor 
is  almost  the  only  figure  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  poetry.  The  more 
developed  simile  belongs  to  a  riper  and  more  reflective  culture,  and  is 
exceedingly  rare  in  this  early  native  product.     It  has  been  noted  that 

*  Beowulf,*  a  poem  of  three  thousand  one  hundred  and  eighty-four 
lines,  contains  only  four  or  five  simple  similes,  and  only  one  that  is 
fully  carried  out.  "The  ship  glides  away  likest  to  a  bird,**  "The 
monster's  eyes  gleam  like  fire,**  are  simple  examples  cited  by  Ten 
Brink,  who  gives  also  the  elaborate  one,  "  The  sword-hilt  melted, 
likened  to  ice,  when  the  Father  looseneth  the  chain  of  frost,  and 
unwindeth  the  wave-ropes.**  But  even  this  simile  is  almost  obliter- 
ated by  the  crowding  metaphors. 

Intensity,  an  almost  abrupt  directness,  a  lack  of  explanatory  detail, 
are  more  general  characteristics,  though  in  greatly  varying  degrees. 
As  some  critic  has  well  said,  the  Anglo-Saxon  poet  seems  to  presup- 
pose a  knowledge  of  his  subject-matter  by  those  he  addresses.  Such 
a  style  is  capable  of  great  swiftness  of  movement,  and  is  well  suited 
to  rapid  description  and  narrative;  but  at  times  roughness  or  mea- 
jjreness  results. 

The  prevailing  tone  is  one  of  sadness.  In  the  lyric  poetry,  this  is 
so  decided  that  all  the  Anglo-Saxon  lyrics  have  been  called  elegies. 
This  note  seems  to  be  the  echo  of  the  struggle  with  an  inhospitable 
climate,  dreary  with  rain,  ice,  hail,  and  snow;  and  of  the  uncertain- 
tie?  of  life,  and  the  certainty  of  death.  Suffering  was  never  far  off, 
and  everything  was  in  the  hands  of  Fate.  This  is  true  at  least  of 
the  earlier  poetry,  and  the  note  is  rarely  absent  even  in  the  Christ- 
ian lyrics.     A  more   cheerful    strain  is    sometimes    heard,    as  in  the 

*  Riddles.*  but  it  is  rather  the  exception;  and  any  alleged  humor  is 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE  549 

scarcely  more  than  a  suspicion.  Love  and  sentiment,  in  the  modem 
sense,  are  not  made  the  subject  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry,  and  this 
must  mean  that  they  did  not  enter  into  the  Anglo-Saxon  life  with 
the  same  intensity  as  into  modem  life.  The  absence  of  this  beauti- 
ful motive  has,  to  some  degree,  its  compensation  in  the  exceeding 
moral  purity  of  the  whole  literature.  It  is  doubtful  whether  it  has 
its  equal  in  this  respect. 

Anglo-Saxon  prose  displays,  as  a  general  thing,  a  simple,  direct, 
and  clear  style.  There  is,  of  course,  a  considerable  difference  between 
the  prose  of  the  earlier  and  that  of  the  later  period,  and  individual 
writers  show  peculiarities.  It  displays  throughout  a  marked  contrast 
with  the  poetic  style,  in  its  freedom  from  parallelisms  in  thought 
and  phrase,  from  inversions,  archaisms,  and  the  almost  excessive 
wealth  of  metaphor  and  epithet.  In  its  early  stages,  there  is  apparent 
perhaps  a  poverty  of  resource,  a  lack  of  flexibility;  but  this  charge 
cannot  be  sustained .  against  the  best  prose  of  the  later  period.  In  the 
translations  from  the  Latin  it  shows  a  certain  stiffness,  and  becomes 
sometimes  involved,  in  the  too  conscientious  effort  of  the  translator 
to  follow  the  classic  original. 

No  attempt  will  be  made  here  to  notice,  or  even  to  name,  all  the 
large  number  of  literary  works  of  the  Anglo-Saxons.  It  must  be 
sufficient  to  examine  briefly  a  few  of  the  most  important  and  char- 
acteristic productions  of  this  really  remarkable  and  prolific  movement. 

The  <Song  of  Widsith,  the  Far  Traveler,*  is  now  generally  con- 
ceded to  be,  in  part  at  least,  the  oldest  existing  Anglo-Saxon  poem. 
We  do  not  know  when  it  assumed  its  present  form;  but  it  is  certain 
that  it  was  after  the  conversion  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  since  it  has 
interpolations  from  the  Christian  scribe.  The  poem  seems  to  give 
evidence  of  being  a  growth  from  an  original  song  by  a  wandering 
scop,  or  poet,  who  claims  to  have  visited  the  Gothic  king  Eormanric, 
«the  grim  violator  of  treaties,'*  who  died  in  375  or  376.  But  other 
kings  are  mentioned  who  lived  in  the  first  half  of  the  sixth  centary. 
It  is  probable,  then,  that  it  was  begun  in  the  fourth  century,  and 
having  been  added  to  by  successive  gleemen,  as  it  was  transmitted 
orally,  was  finally  completed  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  sixth.  It 
was  then  carried  over  to  England,  and  there  first  written  down  in 
Northumbria.  It  possesses  great  interest  because  of  its  antiquity, 
and  because  of  the  light  it  throws  upon  the  life  of  the  professional 
singer  in  those  ancient  times  among  the  Teutons.  It  has  a  long 
list  of  kings  and  places,  partly  historical,  partly  mythical  or  not 
identified.  The  poem,  though  narrative  and  descriptive,  is  also 
lyrical.  We  find  here  the  strain  of  elegiac  sadness,  of  regretful 
retrospection,  so  generally  present  in  Anglo-Saxon  poetry  of  lyric 
character,  and   usually  much  more  pronounced  than  in  'Widsith.* 


ego  ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 

<  Beowulf  >  is,  in  many  respects,  the  most  important  poetical  monu- 
ment of  the  Anglo-Saxons.  The  poem  is  undoubtedly  of  heathen 
origin,  and  the  evidence  that  it  was  a  gradual  growth,  the  result  of 
grouping  several  distinct  songs  around  one  central  figure,  seems 
unmistakable.  We  may  trace  it,  in  its  earliest  stages,  to  the  ancient 
home  of  the  Angles  in  North  Germany.  It  was  transplanted  to 
England  in  the  migration  of  the  tribes,  and  was  edited  in  the  present 
form  by  some  unknown  Northumbrian  poet.  When  this  occurred  we 
do  not  know  certainly,  but  there  seems  good  reason  for  assuming 
the  end  of  the  seventh  or  the  beginning  of  the  eighth  century  as  the 
time. 

The  poem  is  epic  in  cast  and  epic  in  proportion.  Although, 
judged  by  th-e  Homeric  standard,  it  falls  short  in  many  respects  of 
the  complete  form,  yet  it  may  without  violence  be  called  an  epic. 
The  central  figure,  Beowulf,  a  nobly  conceived  hero,  possessing 
immense  strength,  unflinching  courage,  a  never-swerving  sense  of 
honor,  magnanimity,  and  generosity,  the  friend  and  champion  of  the 
weak  against  evil  however  terrible,  is  the  element  of  unity  in  the 
whole  poem.  It  is  in  itself  a  great  honor  to  the  race  that  they  were 
able  to  conceive  as  their  ideal  a  hero  so  superior  in  all  that  consti- 
tutes true  nobility  to  the  Greek  ideal,  Achilles.  It  is  true  that  the 
poem  consists  of  two  parts,  connected  by  little  more  than  the  fact 
that  they  have  the  same  hero  at  different  times  of  life;  that  episodes 
are  introduced  that  do  not  blend  perfectly  into  the  unity  of  the 
poem;  and  that  there  is  a  lack  of  repose  and  sometimes  of  lucidity. 
Yet  there  is  a  dignity  and  vigor,  and  a  large  consistency  in  the 
treatment  of  the  theme,  that  is  epic.  Ten  Brink  says: — "The  poet's 
intensity  is  not  seldom  imparted  to  the  listener,  .  ,  .  The  por- 
trayals of  battles,  although  much  less  realistic  than  the  Homeric 
descriptions,  are  yet  at  times  superior  to  them,  in  so  far  as  the 
demoniac  rage  of  war  elicits  from  the  Germanic  fancy  a  crowding 
affluence  of  vigorous  scenes  hastily  projected  in  glittering  lights  of 
grim  half  gloom.*  In  addition  to  its  great  poetic  merit,  <  Beowulf  >  is 
of  the  greatest  importance  to  us  on  account  of  the  many  fine  pictures 
of  ancient  Teutonic  life  it  presents. 

In  the  merest  outline,  the  argument  of  ^ Beowulf >  is  as  follows: — 
Hrothgar,  King  of  the  Gar-Danes,  has  built  a  splendid  hall,  called 
Heorot.  This  is  the  scene  of  royal  festivity  until  a  monster  from 
the  fen,  Grendel,  breaks  into  it  by  night  and  devours  thirty  of  the 
king's  thanes.  From  that  time  the  hall  is  desolate,  for  no  one  can 
cope  with  Grendel,  and  Hrothgar  is  in  despair.  Beowulf,  the  noble 
hero  of  the  Geats,  in  Sweden,  hears  of  the  terrible  calamity,  and  with 
fourteen  companions  sails  across  the  sea  to  undertake  the  adventure. 
Hrothgar  receives  him   joyfully,  and  afte-^  a  splendid  banquet  gives 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 


55' 


Heorot  into  his  charge.  During  the  following  night,  Beowulf  is 
attacked  by  Grendel;  and  after  one  of  his  companions  has  been  slain, 
he  tears  out  the  arm  of  the  monster,  who  escapes,  mortally  hurt,  to 
his  fen.  On  the  morrow  all  is  rejoicing;  but  when  night  falls,  the 
monster's  mother  attacks  Heorot,  and  kills  Hrothgar's  favorite  thane. 
The  next  day,  Beowulf  pursues  her  to  her  den  under  the  waters  of 
the  fen,  and  after  a  terrific  combat  slays  her.  The  hero  returns 
home  to  Sweden  laden  with  gifts.  This  ends  the  main  thread  of  the 
first  incident.  In  the  second  incident,  after  an  interval  of  fifty  years, 
we  find  Beowulf  an  old  man.  He  has  been  for  many  years  king  of 
the  Geats.  A  fire-breathing  dragon,  the  guardian  of  a  great  treasure, 
is  devastating  the  land.  The  heroic  old  king,  accompanied  by  a 
party  of  thanes,  attacks  the  dragon.  All  the  thanes  save  one  are 
cowardly;  but  the  old  hero,  with  the  aid  of  the  faithful  one,  slays 
the  dragon,  not,  however,  till  he  is  fatally  injured.  Then  follow  his 
death  and  picturesque  burial. 

In  this  sketch,  stirring  episodes,  g^raphic  descriptions,  and  fine 
effects  are  all  sacrificed.  The  poem  itself  is  a  noble  one  and  the 
English  people  may  well  be  proud  of  preserving  in  it  the  first  epic 
production  of  the  Teutonic  race. 

The  <  Fight  at  Finnsburg*  is  a  fine  fragment  of  epic  cast.  The 
Finn  saga  is  at  least  as  old  as  the  Beowulf  poem,  since  the  gleeman 
at  Hrothgar's  banquet  makes  it  his  theme.  From  the  fragment  and 
the  gleeman's  song  we  perceive  that  the  situation  here  is  much  more 
complex  than  is  usual  in  Anglo-Saxon  poems,  and  involves  a  tragic 
conflict  of  passion.  Hildeburh's  brother  is  slain  through  the  treach- 
ery of  her  husband,  Finn;  her  son,  partaking  of  Finn's  faithlessness, 
falls  at  the  hands  of  her  brother's  men;  in  a  subsequent  counterplot, 
her  husband  is  slain.  Besides  the  extraordinary  vigor  of  the  narra- 
tive, the  theme  has  special  interest  in  that  a  woman  is  really  the 
central  figure,  though  not  treated  as  a  heroine. 

A  favorite  theme  in  the  older  lyric  poems  is  the  complaint  of 
some  wandering  scop,  driven  from  his  home  by  the  exigencies  of 
those  perilous  times.  Either  the  singer  has  been  bereft  of  his 
patron  by  death,  or  he  has  been  supplanted  in  his  favor  by  some 
successful  rival;  and  he  passes  in  sorrowful  review  his  former  hap- 
piness, and  contrasts  it  with  his  present  misery.  The  oldest  of  these 
lyrics  are   of  pagan  origin,  though  usually  with   Christian   additions. 

In  the  <  Wanderer,*  an  unknown  poet  pictures  the  exile  who  has 
fled  across  the  sea  from  his  home.  He  is  utterly  lonely.  He  must 
lock  his  sorrow  in  his  heart.  In  his  dream  he  embraces  and  kisses 
his  lord,  and  lays  his  head  upon  his  knee,  as  of  old.  He  awakes, 
and  sees  nothing  but  the  gray  sea,  the  snow  and  hail,  and  the  birds 
dipping  their  wings  in  the  waves.      And  so  he  reflects:  the  world  is 


552 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE 


full  of  care ;  we  are  all  in  the  hands  of  Fate.  Then  comes  the 
Christian  sentiment:  happy  is  he  who  seeks  comfort  with  his  Father 
in  heaven,  with  whom  alone  all  things  are  enduring. 

Another  fine  poem  of  this  class,  somewhat  similar  to  the  *  Wan- 
derer,* is  the  *  Seafarer.'  It  is,  however,  distinct  in  detail  and  treat- 
ment, and  has  its  own  peculiar  beauty.  In  the  <  Fortunes  of  Men,* 
the  poet  treats  the  uncertainty  of  all  things  earthly,  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  parent  forecasting  the  ill  and  the  good  the  future 
may  bring  to  his  sons.  ^Deor's  Lament*  possesses  a  genuine  lyrical 
quality  of  high  order.  The  singer  has  been  displaced  by  a  rival,  and 
finds  consolation  in  his  grief  from  reciting  the  woes  that  others  have 
endured,  and  reflects  in  each  instance,  "That  was  got  over,  and  so 
this  may  be.**  Other  poems  on  other  subjects  might  be  noticed  here; 
as  <The  Husband's  Message,*  where  the  love  of  husband  for  wife  is 
the  theme,  and  <  The  Ruin,*  which  contains  reflections  suggested  by 
a  ruined  city. 

It  is  a  remarkable  fact  that  only  two  of  these  poets  are  known 
to  us  by  name,  Ctedmon  and  Cynewulf.  We  find  the  story  of  the 
inspiration,  work,  and  death  of  Caedmon,  the  earlier  of  these,  told  in 
the  pages  of  Bede.  The  date  of  his  birth  is  not  given,  but  his  death 
fell  in  680.  He  was  a  Northumbrian,  and  was  connected  in  a  lay 
capacity  with  the  great  monastery  of  Whitby.  He  was  uneducated, 
and  not  endowed  in  his  earlier  life  with  the  gift  of  song.  One 
night,  after  he  had  fled  in  mortification  from  a  feast  where  all  were 
required  to  improvise  and  sing,  he  received,  as  he  slept,  the  divine 
inspiration.  The  next  day  he  made  known  his  new  gift  to  the 
authorities  of  the  monastery.  After  he  had  triumphantly  made  good 
his  claims,  he  was  admitted  to  holy  orders,  and  began  his  work  of 
paraphrasing  into  noble  verse  portions  of  the  Scriptures  that  were 
read  to  him.  Of  the  body  of  poetry  that  comes  down  to  us  under 
his  name,  we  cannot  be  sure  that  any  is  his,  unless  we  except  the 
short  passage  given  here.  It  is  certainly  the  work  of  different  poets, 
and  varies  in  merit.  The  evidence  seems  conclusive  that  he  was  a 
poet  of  high  order,  that  his  influence  was  very  great,  and  that  many 
others  wrote  in  his  manner.  The  actors  and  the  scenery  of  the 
Caedmonian  poetry  are  entirely  Anglo-Saxon,  only  the  names  and  the 
outline  of  the  narrative  being  biblical;  and  the  spirit  of  battle  that 
breathes  in  some  passages  is  the  same  that  we  find  in  the  heathen 
epic. 

Cynewulf  was  most  probably  a  Northumbrian,  though  this  is 
sometimes  questioned.  The  dates  of  his  birth  and  death  are  un- 
known. It  seems  established,  however,  that  his  work  belongs  to  the 
eighth  century.  A  great  deal  of  controversy  has  arisen  over  a  num- 
ber  of  poems  that  have   been   ascribed   to   him   and  denied  to  him 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 


553 


with  equal  persistency.  But  we  stand  upon  sure  ground  in  regard  to 
four  poems,  the  < Christ,*  the  < Fates  of  the  Apostles,*  < Juliana,*  and 
^Elene*;  for  he  has  signed  them  in  runes.  If  the  runic  enigma  in 
the  first  of  the  < Riddles*  has  been  correctly  interpreted,  then  they, 
or  portions  of  them,  are  his  also.  But  about  this  there  is  much 
doubt.  The  < Andreas*  and  the  < Dream  of  the  Rood*  may  be  men- 
tioned as  being  of  exceptional  interest  among  the  poems  that  are 
almost  certainly  his.  In  the  latter,  he  tells,  in  a  personal  strain,  the 
story  of  the  appearance  to  him  of  the  holy  cross,  and  of  his  con- 
version and  dedication  of  himself  to  the  service  of  Christ.  The 
<Elene,*  generally  considered  the  finest  of  his  poems,  is  the  story  of 
the  miraculous  finding  of  the  holy  cross  by  St.  Helena,  the  mother 
of  the  Emperor  Constantine.  The  poet  has  lent  great  charm  to  the 
tradition  in  his  treatment.  The  poem  sounds  a  triumphant  note 
throughout,  till  we  reach  the  epilogue,  where  the  poet  speaks  in  his 
own  person  and  in  a  sadder  tone. 

The  quality  of  Cynewulf's  poetry  is  unequal;  but  when  he  is  at 
his  best,  he  is  a  great  poet  and  a  great  artist.  His  personality 
appears  in  direct  subjective  utterance  more  plainly  than  does  that  ot 
any  other  Anglo-Saxon  poet. 

While  we  must  pass  over  many  fine  Anglo-Saxon  poems  without 
mention,  there  are  two  that  must  receive  some  notice.  < Judith* 
is  an  epic  based  upon  the  book  of  Judith  in  the  <  Apocrypha.*  Only 
about  one-fourth  of  it  has  survived.  The  author  is  still  unknown,  in 
spite  of  many  intelligent  efforts  to  determine  to  whom  the  honor 
belongs.  The  dates  assigned  to  it  vary  from  the  seventh  to  the 
tenth  century;  here,  too,  uncertainty  prevails:  but  we  are  at  least 
sure  that  it  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  poems.  It  has 
been  said  that  this  work  shows  a  more  definite  plan  and  more  con- 
scious art  than  any  other  Anglo-Saxon  poem.  Brooke  finds  it  some- 
times conventional  in  the  form  of  expression,  and  denies  it  the 
highest  rank  for  that  reason.  But  he  does  not  seem  to  sustain  the 
charge.  The  two  principal  characters,  the  dauntless  Judith  and  the 
brutal  Holofernes,  stand  out  with  remarkable  distinctness,  and  a  fine 
dramatic  quality  has  been  noted  by  several  critics.  The  epithets  and 
metaphors,  the  description  of  the  drunken  debauch,  and  the  swift, 
powerful  narrative  of  the  battle  and  the  rout  of  the  Assyrians,  are  in 
the  best  Anglo-Saxon  epic  strain.  The  poem  is  distinctly  Christian; 
for  the  Hebrew  heroine,  with  a  naive  anachronism,  prays  thus :  "  God 
of  Creation,  Spirit  of  Consolation,  Son  of  the  Almighty,  I  pray  for 
Thy  mercy  to  me,  greatly  in  need  of  it,  Glory  of  the  Trinity.** 

*  The  Battle  of  Maldon  *  is  a  ballad,  containing  an  account  of  a 
fight  between  the  Northmen  and  the  East  Saxons  under  the  Aldor- 
man,    Byrhtnoth.      The    incident    is    mentioned    in    one    MS.    of    the 


^^4  ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 

Chronicle  under  the  date  of  991 ;  in  another,  under  the  date  of  993. 
The  poem  is  exceedingly  g^raphic.  The  poet  seems  filled  with  in- 
tense feeling,  and  may  have  been  a  spectator,  or  may  indeed  have 
taken  part  in  the  struggle.  He  tells  how  the  brave  old  Aldorman 
disdains  to  use  the  advantage  of  his  position,  which  bade  fair  to 
give  him  victory.  Like  a  boy,  he  cannot  take  a  dare,  but  fatuously 
allows  the  enemy  to  begin  the  battle  upon  an  equal  footing  with  his 
own  men.  He  pays  for  his  noble  folly  with  his  life  and  the  defeat 
of  his  army.  The  devotion  of  the  Aldorman's  hearth-companions, 
who  refuse  to  survive  their  lord,  and  with  brave  words  meet  their 
death,  is  finely  described.  But  not  all  are  true;  some,  who  have 
been  especially  favored,  ignobly  flee.  These  are  treated  with  the 
racial  contempt  for  cowards.  The  poem  has  survived  in  fragmentary 
form,  and  the  name  of  the  poet  is  not  known. 

As  distinguished  from  all  poetical  remains  of  such  literature,  the 
surviving  prose  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  though  extensive,  and  of  the 
greatest  interest  and  value,  is  less  varied  in  subject  and  manner  than 
their  poetry.  It  admits  of  brief  treatment.  The  earliest  known 
specimens  of  Anglo-Saxon  prose  writing  have  been  already  men- 
tioned. These  do  not  constitute  the  beginning  of  a  literature,  yet, 
with  the  rest  of  the  extensive  collection  of  Anglo-Saxon  laws  that 
has  survived,  they  are  of  the  greatest  importance  to  students.  Earle 
quotes  Dr.  Reinhold  Schmid  as  saying,  *No  other  Germanic  nation 
has  bequeathed  to  us  out  of  its  earliest  experience  so  rich  a  treasure 
of  original  legal  documents  as  the  Anglo-Saxon  nation  has,'*  —  only 
another  instance  of  the  precocity  of  our  ancestors. 

To  the  West  Saxons  belongs  nearly  the  whole  of  Anglo-Saxon 
prose.  Whatever  may  have  existed  in  Northumbria  perished  in  the 
inroads  of  the  Northmen,  except  such  parts  as  may  have  been  incor- 
porated in  West  Saxon  writings.  It  will  be  remembered,  however, 
that  the  great  Northumbrian  prose  writers  had  held  to  the  Latin  as 
their  medium.  The  West  Saxon  prose  literature  may  be  said  to 
begin  in  Alfred's  reign. 

The  most  important  production  that  we  have  to  consider  is  the 
famous  Anglo-Saxon  ^  Chronicle.  >  It  covers  with  more  or  less  com- 
pleteness the  period  from  449  to  1 1 54.  This  was  supplemented  by 
fanciful  genealogies  leading  back  to  Woden,  or  even  to  Adam.  It 
is  not  known  when  the  practice  of  jotting  down  in  the  native  speech 
notices  of  contemporary  events  began,  but  probably  in  very  early 
times.  It  is  believed,  however,  that  no  intelligent  effort  to  collect 
and  present  them  with  order  and  system  was  made  until  the  middle 
of  the  ninth  century.  In  the  oldest  of  the  seven  MSS.  in  which  it 
has  come  down  to  us,  we  have  the  < Chronicle*  to  891,  as  it  was 
written  down  in  Alfred's  time  and  probably  under  his  supervision- 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 


555 


The  meagreness  of  the  earliest  entries  and  the  crudeness  of  the 
language,  together  with  occasional  picturesque  force,  indicate  that 
many  of  them  were  drawn  from  current  song  or  tradition.  The  style 
and  fullness  of  the  entries  differ  greatly  throughout,  as  might  be 
expected,  since  the  <  Chronicle  ^  is  the  work  of  so  many  hands.  From 
mere  bare  notices  they  vary  to  strong,  full  narrative  and  description. 
Indeed,  the  <  Chronicle  >  contains  some  of  the  most  effective  prose 
produced  by  the  Anglo-Saxons;  and  in  one  instance,  under  the  date 
937,  the  annalist  describes  the  battle  of  Brunanburh  in  a  poem  of 
considerable  merit.     But  we  know  the  name  of  no  single  contributor. 

This  *  Chronicle*  is  the  oldest  and  most  important  work  of  the 
kind  produced  outside  of  the  classical  languages  in  Europe.  It  is 
meagre  in  places,  and  its  entire  trustworthiness  has  been  questioned. 
But  it  and  Bede's  < Ecclesiastical  History,*  supplemented  by  other 
Anglo-Saxon  writings,  constitute  the  basis  of  early  English  history; 
and  this  fact  alone  entitles  it  to  the  highest  rank  in  importance 
among  ancient  documents. 

A  large  body  of  Anglo-Saxon  prose,  nearly  all  of  it  translation  or 
adaptation  of  Latin  works,  has  come  down  to  us  under  the  name  of 
King  Alfred.  A  peculiar  interest  attaches  to  these  works.  They 
belong  to  a  period  when  the  history  of  England  depended  more  than 
at  any  other  time  upon  the  ability  and  devotion  of  one  man;  and 
that  man,  the  most  heroic  and  the  greatest  of  English  kings,  was 
himself  the  author  of  them. 

When  Alfred  became  king,  in  871,  his  throne  seemed  tottering  to 
its  fall.  Practically  all  the  rest  of  England  was  at  the  feet  of  the 
ruthless  Northmen,  and  soon  Alfred  himself  was  little  better  than  a 
fugitive.  But  by  his  military  skill,  which  was  successful  if  not  brill* 
iant,  and  by  his  never-wavering  devotion  and  English  persistency, 
he  at  last  freed  the  southern  part  of  the  island  from  his  merciless 
and  treacherous  enemies,  and  laid  the  firm  foundation  of  West  Saxon 
supremacy.  If  Alfred  had  failed  in  any  respect  to  be  the  great  king 
that  he  was,  English  history  would  have  been  changed  for  all  time. 

Although  Alfred  had  saved  his  kingdom,  yet  it  was  a  kingdom 
almost  in  ruins.  The  hopeful  advance  of  culture  had  been  entirely 
arrested.  The  great  centres  of  learning  had  been  utterly  destroyed 
in  the  north,  and  little  remained  intact  in  the  south.  And  even 
worse  than  this  was  the  demoralization  of  all  classes,  and  an  indispo- 
sition to  renewed  effort.  There  was,  moreover,  a  great  scarcity  of 
books. 

Alfred  showed  himself  as  great  in  peace  as  in  war,  and  at  once 
set  to  work  to  meet  all  those  difficulties.  To  supply  the  books  that 
were  so  urgently  needed,  he  found  time  in  the  midst  of  his  perplex- 
ing cares  to  translate  from  the   Latin  into  the  native  speech  such 


556 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 


works  as  he  thought  would  supply  the  most  pressing  want.  This 
was  the  more  necessary  from  the  prevailing  ignorance  of  Latin.  It 
is  likely  that  portions  of  the  works  that  go  under  his  name  were  pro- 
duced under  his  supervision  by  carefully  selected  co-workers.  But  it 
is  certain  that  in  a  large  part  of  them  we  may  see  the  work  of  the 
great  Alfred's  own  hand. 

He  has  used  his  own  judgment  in  these  translations,  omitting 
whatever  he  did  not  think  would  be  immediately  helpful  to  his  peo- 
ple, and  making  such  additions  as  he  thought  might  be  of  advantage. 
Just  these  additions  have  the  g^reatest  interest  for  us.  He  translated, 
for  instance,  Orosius's  ^  History  * ;  a  work  in  itself  of  inferior  worth, 
but  as  an  attempt  at  a  universal  history  from  the  Christian  point  of 
view,  he  thought  it  best  suited  to  the  needs  of  his  people.  The 
Anglo-Saxon  version  contains  most  interesting  additions  of  original 
matter  by  Alfred.  They  consist  of  accounts  of  the  voyages  of  Ohtere, 
a  Norwegian,  who  was  the  first,  so  far  as  we  know,  to  sail  around 
the  North  Cape  and  into  the  White  Sea,  and  of  Wulfstan,  who  ex- 
plored parts  of  the  coast  of  the  Baltic.  These  narratives  give  us 
our  first  definite  information  about  the  lands  and  people  of  these 
regions,  and  appear  to  have  been  taken  down  by  the  king  directly  as 
related  by  the  explorers.  Alfred  added  to  this  <  History  >  also  a 
description  of  Central  Europe,  which  Morley  calls  <Hhe  only  authentic 
record  of  the  Germanic  nations  written  by  a  contemporary  so  early 
as  the  ninth  century.'* 

In  Gregory's  *  Pastoral  Care*  we  have  Alfred's  closest  translation. 
It  is  a  presentation  of  "the  ideal  Christian  pastor'*  (Ten  Brink),  and 
was  intended  for  the  benefit  of  the  lax  Anglo-Saxon  priests.  Perhaps 
the  work  that  appealed  most  strongly  to  Alfred  himself  was  Boe- 
thius's  *  Consolations  of  Philosophy  * ;  and  in  his  full  translation  and 
adaptation  of  this  book  we  see  the  hand  and  the  heart  of  the  good 
king.  We  shall  mention  one  other  work  of  Alfred's,  his  translation 
of  the  already  frequently  mentioned  <Historia  Ecclesiastica  Anglorum* 
of  the  Venerable  Bede.  This  great  work  Alfred,  with  good  reason, 
considered  to  be  of  the  greatest  possible  value  to  his  people;  and 
the  king  has  given  it  additional  value  for  us. 

Alfred  was  not  a  great  scholar.  The  wonder  is  that,  in  the  troub- 
lous times  of  his  youth,  he  had  learned  even  the  rudiments.  The 
language  in  his  translations,  however,  though  not  infrequently  affected 
for  the  worse  by  the  Latin  idiom  of  the  original,  is  in  the  main 
free  from  ornament  of  any  kind,  simple  and  direct,  and  reflects  in 
its  sincerity  the  noble  character  of  the  great  king. 

The  period  between  the  death  of  Alfred  (901)  and  the  end  of  the 
tenth  century  was  deficient  in  works  of  literary  value,  except  an 
cuiry  here  and  there  in  the  *  Chronicle.*    <'Alfric's  is  the  last  great 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 


557 


name  in  the  story  of  our  literature  before  the  Conquest,*  says  Henry 
Morley.  He  began  writing  about  the  end  of  the  tenth  century,  and 
we  do  not  know  when  his  work  and  his  life  ended.  This  gentle 
priest,  as  he  appears  to  us  through  his  writings,  following  Alfred's 
example,  wrote  not  from  personal  ambition,  but  for  the  betterment 
of  his  fellow-men.  His  style  is  eminently  lucid,  fluent,  forcible,  and 
of  graceful  finish.'  Earle  observes  of  it:  —  "The  English  of  these 
Homilies  is  splendid;  indeed,  we  may  confidently  say  that  here  English 
appears  fully  qualified  to  be  the  medium  of  the  highest  learning." 
This  is  high  praise,  and  should  be  well  considered  by  those  disposed 
■to  consider  the  Anglo-Saxon  as  a  rude  tongue,  incapable  of  great 
development  in  itself,  and  only  enabled  by  the  Norman  infusion  to 
give  expression  to  a  deep  and  broad  culture. 

Alfric's  works  in  Anglo-Saxon  —  for  he  wrote  also  in  Latin  —  were 
very  numerous,  embracing  two  series  of  homilies,  theological  writings 
of  many  kinds,  translations  of  portions  of  the  Bible,  an  English 
(Anglo-Saxon)  grammar,  adapted  from  a  Latin  work,  a  Latin  diction- 
ary, and  many  other  things  of  great  use  in  their  day  and  of  great 
interest  in  ours. 

The  names  of  other  writers  and  of  other  single  works  might  well 
be  added  here.  But  enough  has  been  said,  perhaps,  to  show  that  a 
great  and  hopeful  development  of  prose  took  place  among  the  West 
Saxons.  It  must  be  admitted  that  the  last  years  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
nationality  before  the  coming  of  the  Normans  show  a  decline  in 
literary  productiveness  of  a  high  order.  The  causes  of  this  are  to  be 
found  chiefly  in  the  political  and  ecclesiastical  history  of  the  time. 
Wars  with  the  Northmen,  internal  dissensions,  religious  controversies, 
the  greater  cultivation  of  Latin  by  the  priesthood,  all  contributed 
to  it.  But  hopeful  signs  of  a  new  revival  were  not  wanting.  The 
language  had  steadily  developed  with  the  enlightenment  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  was  fast  becoming  fit  to  meet  any  demands  that  might  be 
made  upon  it,  when  the  great  catastrophe  of  the  Norman  Conquest 
came,  and  with  it  practically  the  end  of  the  historical  and  distinctive 
Anglo-Saxon  literature. 


€^j--C^..,^..¥-^^£t.^^^ 


ss^ 


ANGLO-SAXON  LlTEkATURE 


FROM   <  BEOWULF  > 


[The  Spear-Danes  intrust  the  dead  body  of  King  Scyld  to  the  sea,  in  a 
splendidly  adorned  ship.  He  had  come  to  them  mysteriously,  alone  in  a  ship 
when  an  infant.] 

AT  THE  hour  that  was  fated 
Scyld  then  departed  to  the  All-Father's  keeping 
War-like  to  wend  him;  away  then  they  bare  him 
To  the  flood  of  the  current,  his  fond-loving  comrades, 
As  himself  he   had  bidden,  while  the   friend   of   the    Scyld- 

ings 
Word-sway  wielded,  and  the  well-loved  land  prince 
Long  did  rule  them.     The  ring-stemmed  vessel, 
Bark  of  the  atheling,  lay  there  at  anchor, 
Icy  in  glimmer  and  eager  for  sailing ; 
The  beloved  leader  laid  they  down  there. 
Giver  of  rings,  on  the  breast  of  the  vessel, 
The  famed  by  the  mainmast.     A  many  of  jewels. 
Of  fretted  embossings,  from  far-lands  brought  over. 
Was  placed  near  at  hand  then;  and  heard  I  not  ever 
That  a  folk  ever  furnished  a  float  more  superbly 
With  weapons  of  warfare,  weeds  for  the  battle. 
Bills  and  burnies;  on  his  bosom  sparkled 
Many  a  jewel  that  with  him  must  travel 
On  the  flush  of  the  flood  afar  on  the  current. 
And  favors  no  fewer  they  furnished  him  soothly. 
Excellent  folk-gems,  than  others  had  given  him 
Lone  on  the  main,  the  merest  of  infants: 
And  a  gold-fashioned  standard  they  stretched  under  heaven 
High  o'er  his  head,  let  the  holm-currents  bear  him. 
Seaward  consigned  him:  sad  was  their  spirit, 
Their  mood  very  mournful.     Men  are  not  able 
Soothly  to  tell  us,  they  in  halls  who  reside. 
Heroes  under  heaven,  to  what  haven  he  hied. 

They  guard  the  wolf-coverts. 
Lands  inaccessible,  wind-beaten  nesses, 
Fearfullest  fen-deeps,  where  a  flood  from  the  mountains 
'Neath  mists  of  the  nesses  netherward  rattles. 
The  stream  under  earth:  not  far  is  it  henceward 
Measured  by  mile-lengths  the  mere-water  standeth. 
Which  forests  hang  over,  with  frost-whiting  covered, 
A  firm-rooted  forest,  the  floods  overshadow. 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE  559 

There  ever  at  night  one  an  ill-meaning  portent, 

A  fire-flood  may  see;  'mong  children  of  men 

None  liveth  so  wise  that  wot  of  the  bottom ; 

Though  harassed  by  hounds  the  heath-stepper  seek  for. 

Fly  to  the  forest,  firm-antlered  he-deer, 

Spurred  from  afar,  his  spirit  he  yieldeth. 

His  life  on  the  shore,  ere  in  he  will  venture 

To  cover  his  head.     Uncanny  the  place  is: 

Thence  upward  ascendeth  the  surging  of  waters. 

Wan  to  the  welkin,  when  the  wind  is  stirring 

The  weather  unpleasing,  till  the  air  groweth  gloomy. 

Then  the  heavens  lower. 

[Beowulf  has  plunged  into  the  water  of  the  mere  in  pursuit  of  Grendel's 
mother,  and  is  a  whole  day  in  reaching  the  bottom.  He  is  seized  by  the 
monster  and  carried  to  her  cavern,  where  the  combat  ensues.] 

The  earl  then  discovered  he  was  down  in  some  cavern 

Where  no  water  whatever  anywise  harmed  him. 

And  the  clutch  of  the  current  could  come  not  anear  him. 

Since  the  roofed-hall  prevented;  brightness  a-gleaming. 

Fire-light  he  saw,  flashing  resplendent. 

The  good  one  saw  then  the  sea-bottom's  monster. 

The  mighty  mere-woman;  he  made  a  great  onset 

With  weapon-of-battle ;  his  hand  not  desisted 

From  striking;  the  war-blade  struck  on  her  head  then 

A  battle-song  greedy.     The  stranger  perceived  then 

The  sword  would  not  bite,  her  life  would  not  injure, 

But  the  falchion  failed  the  folk-prince  when  straitened: 

Erst  had  it  often  onsets  encountered. 

Oft  cloven  the  helmet,  the  fated  one's  armor ; 

'Twas  the  first  time  that  ever  the  excellent  jewel 

Had  failed  of  its  fame.     Firm-mooded  after. 

Not  heedless  of  valor,  but  mindful  of  glory 

Was  Higelac's  kinsman;  the  hero-chief  angry 

Cast  then  his  carved-sword  covered  with  jewels 

That  it  lay  on  the  earth,  hard  and  steel-pointed; 

He  hoped  in  his  strength,  his  hand-grapple  sturdy. 

So  any  must  act  whenever  he  thinketh 

To  gain  him  in  battle  glory  unending, 

And  is  reckless  of  living.     The  lord  of  the  War-Geats 

(He  shrank  not  from  battle)  seized  by  the  shoulder 

The  mother  of  Grendel;  then  mighty  in  struggle 

Swung  he  his  enemy,  since  his  anger  was  kindled. 

That  she  fell  to  the  floor.     With  fiirious  grapple 


560  ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 

She  gave  him  requital  early  thereafter, 

And  stretched  out  to  grab  him;  the  strongest  of  warriors 

Faint-mooded  stumbled,  till  he  fell  in  his  traces, 

Foot-going  champion.     Then  she  sat  on  the  hall-guest 

And  wielded  her  war-knife  wide-bladed,  flashing, 

For  her  son  would  take  vengeance,  her  one  only  bairn. 

His  breast-armor  woven  bode  on  his  shoulder; 

It  guarded  his  life,  the  entrance  defended 

'Gainst  sword-point  and  edges.     Ecgtheow's  son  there 

Had  fatally  journeyed,  champion  of  Geatmen, 

In  the  arms  of  the  ocean,  had  the  armor  not  given, 

Close-woven  corselet,  comfort  and  succor. 

And  had  God  Most  Holy  not  awarded  the  victory, 

All-knowing  lord;  easily  did  heaven's 

Ruler  most  righteous  arrange  it  with  justice; 

Uprose  he  erect  ready  for  battle. 

Then  he  saw  'mid  the  war-gems  a  weapon  of  victory. 

An  ancient  giant-sword,  of  edges  a-doughty. 

Glory  of  warriors:  of  weapons  'twas  choicest. 

Only  'twas  larger  than  any  man  else  was 

Able  to  bear  to  the  battle-encounter. 

The  good  and  splendid  work  of  the  giants. 

He  grasped  then  the  sword-hilt,  knight  of  the  Scyldings, 

Bold  and  battle-grim,  brandished  his  ring-sword. 

Hopeless  of  living,  hotly  he  smote  her. 

That  the  fiend-woman's  neck  firmly  it  grappled, 

Broke  through  her  bone-joints,  the  bill  fully  pierced  her 

Fate-cursed  body,  she  fell  to  the  ground  then: 

The  hand-sword  was  bloody,  the  hero  exulted. 

[Fifty  years  have  elapsed.  The  aged  Beowulf  has  died  from  the  injuries 
received  in  his  struggle  with  the  Fire  Drake.  His  body  is  burned,  and  a 
barrow  erected.] 

A  folk  of  the  Geatmen  got  him  then  ready 
A  pile  on  the  earth  strong  for  the  burning, 
Behung  with  helmets,  hero-knight's  targets. 
And    bright-shining  burnies,  as  he  begged  they  should  have 

them; 
Then  wailing  war-heroes  their  world-famous  chieftain. 
Their  liege-lord  beloved,  laid  in  the  middle. 
Soldiers  began  then  to  make  on  the  barrow 
The  largest  of  dead  fires:  dark  o'er  the  vapor 
The  smoke  cloud  ascended;   the  sad-roaring  fire, 
Mingled  with  weeping  (the- wind-roar  subsided) 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE  561 

Till  the  building  of  bone  it  had  broken  to  pieces, 

Hot  in  the  heart.     Heavy  in  spirit 

They  mood-sad  lamented  the  men-leader's  min.    .     .     . 

The  men  of  the  Weders  made  accordingly 

A  hill  on  the  height,  high  and  extensive. 

Of  sea-going  sailors  to  be  seen  from  a  distance, 

And  the  brave  one's  beacon  built  where  the  fire  was, 

In  ten  days'  space,  with  a  wall  surrounded  it. 

As  wisest  of  world-folk  could  most  worthily  plan  it. 

They  placed  in  the  barrow  rings  and  jewels. 

All  such  ornaments  as  erst  in  the  treasure 

War-mooded  men  had  won  in  possession: 

The  earnings  of  earlmen  to  earth  they  intrusted. 

The  gold  to  the  dust,  where  yet  it  remaineth 

As  useless  to  mortals  as  in  foregoing  eras. 

'Round  the  dead-mound  rode  then  the  doughty-in-battle. 

Bairns  of  all  twelve  of  the  chiefs  of  the  people. 

More  would  they  mourn,  lament  for  their  ruler. 

Speak  in  measure,  mention  him  with  pleasure; 

Weighed  his  worth,  and  his  warlike  achievements 

Mightily  commended,  as  'tis  meet  one  praise  his 

Liege  lord  in  words  and  love  him  in  spirit. 

When  forth  from  his  body  he  fares  to  destruction. 

So  lamented  mourning  the  men  of  the  Geats, 

Fond  loving  vassals,  the  fall  of  their  lord. 

Said  he  was  gentlest  of  kings  under  heaven. 

Mildest  of  men  and  most  philanthropic, 

Friendliest  to  folk-troops  and   fondest  of  honor. 

By  permission  of  John  Leslie  Hall,  the  Translator,  and  D.  C.  Heath  &  Co.. 

Publishers 

DEOR'S  LAMENT 

WWLAND  often  wandered  in  exile, 
doughty  earl,  ills  endur'd, 
had  for  comrades  care  and  longing, 
winter-cold  wandering;  woe  oft  found 
since  Nithhad  brought  such  need  upon  him, — 
laming  wound  on  a  lordlier  man. 

That  pass'd  over,  —  and  this  may,   too! 

In  Beadohild's  breast,  her  brothers'  death 
wrought  no  such  ill  as  her  own  disgrace, 
when  she  had  openly  understood 
1-36 


562  ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 

her  maidhood  vanished;  she  might  no  wise 
think  how  the  case  could  thrive  at  all. 

That  pass'd  over, — and  this  may,  tool 

We  have  heard  enough  of  Hild's  disgrace; 
heroes  of  Geat  were  homeless  made, 
and  sorrow  stole  their  sleep  away. 

That  pass'd  over, — and  this  may,  too! 

Theodoric  held  for  thirty  winters 
Maering's  burg,  as  many  have  known. 

That  pass'd  over,  —  and  this  may,  too ; 

We  have  also  heard  of  Ermanric's 
wolfish  mind;  wide  was  his  sway 
o'er  the  Gothic  race,  —  a  ruler  grim. 
Sat  many  a  man  in  misery  bound, 
waited  but  woe,  and  wish'd  amain 
that  ruin  might  fall  on  the  royal  house. 

That  pass'd  over, — and  this  may,  too! 

Sitteth  one  sighing,  sunder'd  from  happiness; 
all's  dark  within  him;  he  deems  forsooth 
that  his  share  of  evils  shall  endless  be. 
Let  such  bethink  him  that  thro'  this  world 
mighty  God  sends  many  changes: 
to  earls  a  plenty  honor  he  shows, 
ease  and  bliss;  to  others,  sorrow. 

Now  I  will  say  of  myself,  and  how 
I  was  singer  once  to  the  sons  of  Heoden, 
dear  to  my  master,  and  Deor  was  my  name. 
Long  were  the  winters  my  lord  was  kind, 
happy  my  lot,  —  till  Heorrenda  now 
by  grace  of  singing  has  gained  the  land 
which  the  ** haven  of  heroes*'  erewhile  gave  me. 
That  pass'd  over,  —  and  this  may,  too ! 
Translation  of  F.   B.   Gummere   in   the    Atlantic    Monthly,   February,   1891:    by 
permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE  563 


FROM   <THE    WANDERER  > 

OFT-TIMES  the  Wanderer  waiteth  God's  mercy, 
Sad  and  disconsolate  though  he  may  be. 
Far  o'er  the  watery  track  must  he  travel. 

Long  must  he  row  o'er  the  rime-crusted  sea — 
Plod  his  lone  exile-path  —  Fate  is  severe. 

Mindful  of  slaughter,  his  kinsman  friends'  death. 

Mindful  of  hardships,  the  wanderer  saith:  — 
Oft  must  I  lonely,  when  dawn  doth  appear. 

Wail  o'er  my  sorrow  —  since  living  is  none 

Whom  I  may  whisper  my  heart's  undertone. 
Know  I  full  well  that  in  man  it  is  noble 

Fast  in  his  bosom  his  sorrow  to  bind. 
Weary  at  heart,  yet  his  Fate  is  unyielding  — 

Help  Cometh  not  to  his  suffering  mind. 
Therefore  do  those  who  are  thirsting  for  glory 

Bind  in  their  bosom  each  pain's  biting  smart. 
Thus  must  I  often,  afar  from  my  kinsmen. 

Fasten  in  fetters  my  home-banished  heart. 
Now  since  the  day  when  my  dear  prince  departed 

Wrapped  in  the  gloom  of  his  dark  earthen  grave.. 
I,  a  poor  exile,  have  wandered  in  winter 

Over  the  flood  of  the  foam-frozen  wave. 
Seeking,  sad-hearted,  some  giver  of  treasure, 

Some  one  to  cherish  me  friendless  —  some  chief 
Able  to  guide  me  with  wisdom  of  counsel. 

Willing  to  greet  me  and  comfort  my  grief. 
He  who  hath  tried  it,  and  he  alone,  knoweth 

How  harsh  a  comrade  is  comfortless  Care 
Unto  the  man  who  hath  no  dear  protector. 

Gold  wrought  with  fingers  nor  treasure  so  fair. 
Chill  is  his  heart  as  he  roameth  in  exile  — 

Thinketh  of  banquets  his  boyhood  saw  spread; 
Friends  and  companions  partook  of  his  pleasures  — 
Knoweth  he  well  that  all  friendless  and  lordless 

Sorrow  awaits  him  a  long  bitter  while;  — 
Yet,  when  the  spirits  of  Sorrow  and  Slumber 

Fasten  with  fetters  the  orphaned  exile, 
Seemeth  him  then  that  he  seeth  in  spirit, 

Meeteth  and  greeteth  his  master  once  more, 
Layeth  his  head  on  his  lord's  loving  bosom, 

Just  as  he  did  in  the  dear  days  of  yore. 


5^4  ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 

But  he  awaketh,  forsaken  and  friendless, 

Seeth  before  him  the  black  billows  rise, 
Seabirds  are  bathing  and  spreading  their  feathers, 

Hailsnow  and  hoar-frost  are  hiding  the  skies. 
Then  in  his  heart  the  more  heavily  wounded, 

Longeth  full  sore  for  his  loved  one,  his  own, 
Sad  is  the  mind  that  remembereth  kinsmen. 

Greeting  with  gladness  the  days  that  are  gone. 
Seemeth  him  then  on  the  waves  of  the  ocean 

Comrades  are  swimming, — well-nigh  within  reach,— 
Yet  from  the  spiritless  lips  of  the  swimmers 

Cometh  familiar  no  welcoming  speech. 
So  is  his  sorrow  renewed  and  made  sharper 

When  the  sad  exile  so  often  must  send 
Thoughts  of  his  suffering  spirit  to  wander 

Wide  o'er  the  waves  where  the  rough  billows  blend. 
So,  lest  the  thought  of  my  mind  should  be  clouded, 

Close  must  I  prison  my  sadness  of  heart, 
When  I  remember  my  bold  comrade-kinsmen. 

How  from  the  mede-hall  I  saw  them  depart. 
Thus  is  the  earth  with  its  splendor  departing  — 

Day  after  day  it  is  passing  away, 
Nor  may  a  mortal  have  much  of  true  wisdom 

Till  his  world-life  numbers  many  a  day. 
He  who  is  wise,  then,  must  learn  to  be  patient — 

Not  too  hot-hearted,  too  hasty  of  speech. 
Neither  too  weak  nor  too  bold  in  the  battle. 

Fearful,  nor  joyous,  nor  greedy  to  reach, 
Neither  too  ready  to  boast  till  he  knoweth  — 

Man  must  abide,  when  he  vaunted  his  pride. 
Till  strong  of  mind  he  hath  surely  determined 

Whether  his  purpose  can  be  turned  aside. 
Surely  the  wise  man  may  see  like  the  desert 

How  the  whole  wealth  of  the  world  lieth  waste, 
How  through  the  earth  the  lone  walls  are  still  standing, 

Blown  by  the  wind  and  despoiled  and  defaced. 
Covered  with  frost,  the  proud  dwellings  are  ruined, 

Crumbled  the  wine-halls  —  the  king  lieth  low, 
Robbed  of  his  pride  —  and  his  troop  have  all  fallen 

Proud  by  the  wall  —  some,  the  spoil  of  the  foe, 
War  took  away  —  and  some  the  fierce  sea-fowl 

Over  the  ocean  —  and  some  the  wolf  gray 
Tore  after  death  —  and  yet  others  the  hero 

Sad-faced  has  laid  in  earth-caverns  away. 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE  ^65 

Thus  at  his  will  the  eternal  Creator 

Famished  the  fields  of  the  earth's  ample  fold — 
Until  her  dwellers  abandoned  their  feast-boards. 

Void  stood  the  work  of  the  giants  of  old. 
One  who  was  viewing  full  wisely  this  wall-place. 

Pondering  deeply  his  dark,  dreary  life. 
Spake  then  as  follows,  his  past  thus  reviewing, 

Years  full  of  slaughter  and  struggle  and  strife: — 
« Whither,  alas,  have  my  horses  been  carried? 

Whither,  alas,  are  my  kinspeople  gone  ? 
Where  is  my  giver  of  treasure  and  feasting  ? 

Where  are  the  joys  of  the  hall  I  have  known  ? 
Ah,  the  bright  cup  —  and  the  corseleted  warrior  — 

Ah,  the  bright  joy  of  a  king's  happy  lot! 
How  the  glad  time  has  forever  departed, 

Swallowed  in  darkness,  as  though  it  were  not! 
Standeth,  instead  of  the  troop  of  young  warriors, 

Stained  with  the  bodies  of  dragons,  a  wall  — 
The    men    were    cut   down    in    their    pride    by   the    spear- 
points  — 

Blood-greedy  weapons  —  but  noble  their  fall. 
Earth  is  enwrapped  in  the  lowering  tempest. 

Fierce  on  the  stone-cliff  the  storm  rushes  forth, 
Cold  winter-terror,  the  night  shade  is  dark'ning. 

Hail-storms  are  laden  with  death  from  the  north. 
All  full  of  hardships  is  earthly  existence  — 

Here  the  decrees  of  the  Fates  have  their  sway  — 
Fleeting  is  treasure  and  fleeting  is  friendship  — 

Here  man  is  transient,  here  friends  pass  away. 
Earth's  widely  stretching,  extensive  domain. 
Desolate  all  —  empty,  idle,  and  vain.** 

In  < Modern  Language  Notes*:   Translation  of  W.  R.  Sims. 


THE  SEAFARER 

SOOTH  the  song  that  I  of  myself  can  sing, 
Telling  of  my  travels:   how  in  troublous  days. 
Hours  of  hardship  oft  I've  borne! 
With  a  bitter  breast-care  I  have  been  abiding: 
Many  seats  of  sorrow  in  my  ship  have  known! 
Frightful  was  the  whirl  of  waves,  when  it  was  my  part 
Narrow  watch  at  night  to  keep,  on  my  Vessel's  prow 
When  it  rushed  the  rocks  along.     By  the  rigid  cold 


566  ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE 

Fast  my  feet  were  pinched,  fettered  by  the  frost, 
By  the  chains  of  cold.     Care  was  sighing  then 
Hot  my  heart  around;   hunger  rent  to  shreds 
Courage  in  me,  me  sea-wearied!     This  the  man  knows  not, 
He  to  whom  it  happens,  happiest  on  earth. 
How  I,  carked  with  care,  in  the  ice-cold  sea, 
Overwent  the  winter  on  my  wander-ways. 
All  forlorn  of  happiness,  all  bereft  of  loving  kinsmen. 
Hung  about  with  icicles;   flew  the  hail  in  showers. 
Nothing  heard  I  there  save  the  howling  of  the  sea, 
And  the  ice-chilled  billow,  'whiles  the  crying  of  the  swan. 
All  the  glee  I  got  me  was  the  gannet's  scream. 
And  the  swoughing  of  the  seal,  'stead  of  mirth  of  men; 
'Stead  of  the  mead-drinking,  moaning  of  the  sea-mew. 
There  the  storms  smote  on  the  crags,  there  the  swallow  of  the 

sea 
Answered  to  them,  icy-plumed;  and  that  answer  oft  the  earn  — 
Wet  his  wings  were — barked  aloud. 

None  of  all  my  kinsmen 
Could  this  sorrow-laden  soul  stir  to  any  joy. 
Little  then  does  he  believe  who  life's  pleasure  owns, 
While  he  tarries  in  the  towns,  and  but  trifling  ills, 
Proud  and  insolent  with  wine  —  how  out-wearied  I 
Often  must  outstay  on  the  ocean  path! 

Sombre   grew  the    shade   of  night,  and  it  snowed   from   north- 
ward. 
Frost  the  field  enchained,  fell  the  hail  on  earth. 
Coldest  of  all  grains. 

Wherefore  now  then  crash  together 
Thoughts  my  soul  within  that  I  should  myself  adventure 
The  high  streamings  of  the  sea,  and  the  sport  of  the  salt 

waves ! 
For  a  passion  of  the  mind  every  moment  pricks  me  on 
All  my  life  to  set  a  faring ;   so  that  far  from  hence, 
I  may  seek  the  shore  of  the  strange  outlanders. 
Yes,  so  haughty  of  his  heart  is  no  hero  on  the  earth. 
Nor  so  good  in  all  his  giving,  nor  so  generous  in  youth, 
Nor  so  daring  in  his  deed,  nor  so  dear  unto  his  lord, 
That  he  has  not  always  yearning  unto  his  sea-faring. 
To  whatever  work  his  Lord  may  have  will  to  make  for  him. 
For  the  harp  he  has  no  heart,  nor  for  having  of  the  rings, 
Nor  in  woman  is  his  weal,  in  the  world  he's  no  delight, 
Nor  in  anything  whatever  save  the  tossing  o'er  the  waves! 
Oh,  forever  he  has  longing  who  is  urged  towards  the  sea. 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE  567 

Trees  rebloom  with  blossoms,  burghs  are  fair  again, 

Winsome  are  the  wide  plains,  and  the  world  is  gay  — 

All  doth  only  challenge  the  impassioned  heart 

Of  his  courage  to  the  voyage,  whosoever  thus  bethinks  him, 

O'er  the  ocean  billows,  far  away  to  go. 

Every  cuckoo  calls  a  warning,  with  his  chant  of  sorrow! 

Sings  the  summer's  watchman,  sorrow  is  he  boding. 

Bitter  in  the  bosom's  hoard.      This  the  brave  man  wots  not  of, 

Not  the  warrior  rich  in  welfare  —  what  the  wanderer  endures. 

Who  his  paths  of  banishment,  widest  places  on  the  sea. 

For  behold,  my  thought  hovers  now  above  my  heart; 

O'er  the  surging  flood  of  sea  now  my  spirit  flies, 

O'er  the  homeland  of  the  whale  —  hovers  then  afar 

O'er  the  foldings  of  the  earth!     Now  again  it  flies  to  me 

Full  of  yearning,  greedy!     Yells  that  lonely  flier; 

Whets  upon  the  Whale-way  irresistibly  my  heart. 

O'er  the  storming  of  the  seas! 

Translation  of  Stopford  Brooke. 


THE  FORTUNES  OF  MEN 

FULL  often  it  falls  out,  by  fortune  from  God, 
That  a  man  and  a  maiden  may  marry  in  this  world, 
Find  cheer  in  the  child  whom  they  cherish  and  care  for, 
Tenderly  tend  it,  until  the  time  comes. 
Beyond  the  first  years,  when  the  young  limbs  increasing 
Grown  firm  with  life's   fullness,  are   formed  for  their  work. 
Fond  father  and  mother  so  guide  it  and  feed  it. 
Give  gifts  to  it,  clothe  it:  God  only  can  know 
What  lot  to  its  latter  days  life  has  to  bring. 
To  some  that  make  music  in  life's  morning  hour 
Pining  days  are  appointed  of  plaint  at  the  close. 
One  the  wild  wolf  shall  eat,  hoary  haunter  of  wastes: 
His  mother  shall  mourn  the  small  strength  of  a  man. 
One  shall  sharp  hunger  slay;  one  shall  the  storm  beat  down; 
One  be  destroyed  by  darts,  one  die  in  war. 
One  shall  live  losing  the  light  of  his  eyes. 
Feel  blindly  with  fingers;  and  one,  lame  of  foot. 
With  sinew-wound  wearily  wasteth  away. 
Musing  and  mourning,  with  death  in  his  mind. 
One,  failing  feathers,  shall  fall  from  the  height 
Of  the  tall  forest  tree;  yet  he  trips  as  though  flying, 
Plays  proudly  in  air  till  he  reaches  the  point 


568 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 

Where  the  woodgrowth  is  weak;  life  then  whirls  in  his  brain, 

Bereft  of  his  reason  he  sinks  to  the  root, 

Falls  flat  on  the  ground,  his  life  fleeting  away. 

Afoot  on  the  far-ways,  his  food  in  his  hand, 

One  shall  go  grieving,  and  great  be  his  need. 

Press  dew  on  the  paths  of  the  perilous  lands 

Where  the  stranger  may  strike,  where  live  none  to  sustain. 

All  shun  the  desolate  for  being  sad. 

One  the  great  gallows  shall  have  in  its  grasp,  ' 

Stained  in  dark  agony,  till  the  soul's  stay, 

The  bone-house,  is  bloodily  all  broken  up; 

When  the  harsh  raven  hacks  eyes  from  the  head. 

The  sallow-coated,  slits  the  soulless  man. 

Nor  can  he  shield  from  shame,  scare  with  his  hands, 

Off  from  their  eager  feast  prowlers  of  air. 

Lost  is  his  life  to  him,  left  is  no  breath. 

Bleached  on  the  gallows-beam  bides  he  his  doom; 

Cold  death-mists  close  round  him  called  the  Accursed. 

One  shall  die   by  the  dagger,  in  wrath,  drenched  with  ale, 
Wild  through  wine,  on  the  mead  bench,  too  swift  with  his 

words ; 
Through  the  hand   that  brings  beer,  through  the  gay  boon 

companion. 
His  mouth  has  no  measure,  his  mood  no  restraint; 
Too  lightly  his  life  shall  the  wretched  one  lose, 
Undergo  the  great  ill,  be  left  empty  of  joy. 
When  they  speak  of  him  slain  by  the  sweetness  of  mead, 
His  comrades  shall  call  him  one  killed  by  himself. 

Some  have  good  hap,  and  some  hard  days  of  toil; 
Some  glad  glow  of  youth,  and  some  glory  in  war, 
Strength    in   the    strife;   some   sling   the  stone,  some  shoot. 

One  shall  handle  the  harp,  at  the  feet  of  his  hero 
Sit  and  win  wealth  from  the  will  of  his  Lord; 
Still  quickly  contriving  the  throb  of  the  cords, 
The  nail  nimbly  makes  music,  awakes  a  glad  noise. 
While  the  heart  of  the  harper  throbs,  hurried  by  zeal. 

Translation  of  Henry  Morley. 


T 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE  569 


FROM   <  JUDITH  > 

[The  Ass)nrian  officers,  obeying  the  commands  of  Holofemes,  come  to  the 
rarouse.] 

*HEY  then  at  the  feast  proceeded  to  sit, 

The  proud  to  the  wine-drinking,  all  his  comrades-in-ill. 
Bold  mailed-warriors.     There  were  lofty  beakers 
Oft  borne  along  the  benches,  also  were  cups  and  flagons 
Full  to  the  hall-sitters  borne.     The  fated  partook  of  them. 
Brave  warriors-with-shields,  though  the  mighty  weened  not 

of  it. 
Awful  lord  of  earls.     Then  was  Holofemes, 
Gold-friend  of  men,  full  of  wine-joy: 
He  laughed  and  clamored,  shouted  and  dinned, 
That  children  of  men  from  afar  might  hear 
How  the  strong-minded  both  stormed  and  yelled. 
Moody  and  mead-drunken,  often  admonished 
The  sitters-on-benches  to  bear  themselves  well. 
Thus  did  the  hateful  one  during  all  day 
His  liege-men  loyal  keep  plying  with  wine. 
Stout-hearted  giver  of  treasure,  until  they  lay  in  a  swoon. 

[Holofemes  has  been  slain  by  Judith.     The  Hebrews,  encouraged  by  her, 
surprise  the  drunken  and  sleeping  Assyrians.] 

Then  the  band  of  the  brave  was  quickly  prepared. 

Of  the  bold  for  battle;  stepped  out  the  valiant 

Men  and  comrades,  bore  their  banners. 

Went  forth  to  fight  straight  on  their  way 

The  heroes  'neath  helmets  from  the  holy  city 

At  the  dawn  itself;  shields  made  a  din. 

Loudly  resounded.     TK^ereat  laughed  the  lank 

Wolf  iu  the  wood,  and  the  raven  wan. 

Fowl  greedy  for  slaughter:  both  of  them  knew 

That  for  them  the  warriors  thought  to  provide 

Their  fill  on  the  fated*  and  flew  on  their  track 

The  dewy-winged  eagle  eager  for  prey, 

The  dusky-coated  sang  his  war-song. 

The  crooked-beaked.     Stepped  forth  the  warriors, 

The  heroes  for  battle  with  boards  protected, 

With  hollow  shields,  who  awhile  before 

The  foreign-folk's  reproach  endured, 

The  heathens'  scorn;  fiercely  was  that 


570  ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 

At  the  ash-spear's  play  to  them  all  repaid. 

All  the  Assyrians,  after  the  Hebrews 

Under  their  banners  had  boldly  advanced 

To  the  army-camps.     They  bravely  then 

Forthright  let  fly  showers  of  arrows, 

Of  battle-adders,  out  from  the  horn-bows. 

Of  strongly-made  shafts;  stormed  they  aloud. 

The  cruel  warriors,  sent  forth  their  spears 

Among  the  brave;  the  heroes  were  angry, 

The  dwellers-in-land,  with  the  loathed  race; 

The  stern-minded  stepped,  the  stout-in-heart, 

Rudely  awakened  their  ancient  foes 

Weary  from  mead;  with  hands  drew  forth 

The  men  from  the  sheaths  the  brightly-marked  swords 

Most  choice  in  their  edges,  eagerly  struck 

Of  the  host  of  Assyrians  the  battle-warriors, 

The  hostile-minded;  not  one  they  spared 

Of  the  army-folk,  nor  low  nor  high 

Of  living  men,  whom  they  might  subdue. 

By  consent  of  Ginn  &  Co.     Translation  of  Gamett. 


THE  FIGHT  AT  MALDON 

[The  Anglo-Saxons  under  Byrhtnoth  are  drawn  up  on  one  side  of  Panta 
stream,  the  Northmen  on  the  other.  The  herald  of  the  Northmen  demands 
tribute.     Byrhtnoth  replies.] 

THEN  stood  on  the  stathe,  stoutly  did  call. 
The  wikings'  herald,  with  words  he  spake, 
Who  boastfully  bore  from  the  brine-farers 
An  errand  to  th'  earl,  where  he  stood  on  the  shore: — 
<*To  thee  me  did  send  the  seamen  snell, 
Bade  to  thee  say,  thou  must  send  to  them  quickly 
Bracelets  for  safety;  and  'tis  better  for  you 
That  ye  this  spear-rush  with  tribute  buy  off 
Than  we  in  so  fierce  a  fight  engage. 
We  need  not  each  spill,  if  ye  speed  to  this: 
We  will  for  the  pay  a  peace  confirm. 
If  thou  that  redest,  who  art  highest  in  rank, 
If  thou  to  the  seamen  at  their  own  pleasure 
Money  for  peace,  and  take  peace  from  us, 
We  will  with  the  treasure  betake  us  to  ship, 
Fare  on  the  flood,  and  peace  with  you  confirm,'* 
Byrhtnoth  replied,  his  buckler  uplifted, 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE  571. 

Waved  his  slim  spear,  with  words  he  spake. 

Angry  and  firm  gave  answer  to  him:  — 

*<Hear'st  thou,  seafarer,  what  saith  this  folk? 

They  will  for  tribute  spear-shafts  you  pay. 

Poisonous  points  and  trusty  swords. 

Those  weapons  that  you  in  battle  avail  not. 

Herald  of  seamen,  hark  back  again, 

Say  to  thy  people  much  sadder  words:  — 

Here  stands  not  unknown  an  earl  with  his  band. 

Who  will  defend  this  father-land, 

^thelred's  home,  mine  own  liege  lord's, 

His  folk  and  field;  ye're  fated  to  fall, 

Ye  heathen,  in  battle.     Too  base  it  me  seems 

That  ye  with  our  scats  to  ship  may  go 

Unfought  against,  so  far  ye  now  hither 

Into  our  country  have  come  within; 

Ye  shall  not  so  gently  treasure  obtain; 

Shall  spear  and  sword  sooner  beseem  us. 

Grim  battle-play,  ere  tribute  we  give.* 

[The  Northmen,  unable  to  force  a  passage,  ask  to  be  allowed  to  cross  and 
fight  it  out  on  an  equal  footing.     Byrhtnoth  allows  this.] 

'<Now  room  is  allowed  you,  come  quickly  to  us, 

Warriors  to  war;  wot  God  alone 

Who  this  battle-field  may  be  able  to  keep.* 

Waded  the  war-wolves,  for  water  they  recked  not. 

The  wikings'  band  west  over  Panta, 

O'er  the  clear  water  carried  their  shields. 

Boatmen  to  bank  their  bucklers  bore. 

There  facing  their  foes  ready  were  standing 

Byrhtnoth  with  warriors:  with  shields  he  bade 

The  war-hedgel  work,  and  the  war-band  hold 

Fast  'gainst  the  foes.     Then  fight  was  nigh. 

Glory  in  battle;  the  time  was  come 

That  fated  men  should  there  now  fall. 

Then  outcry  was  raised,  the  ravens  circled. 

Eagle  eager  for  prey;  on  earth  was  uproar. 

Then  they  let  from  their  fists  the  file-hardened  spears. 

The  darts  well-ground,  fiercely  fly  forth: 

The  bows  were  busy,  board  point  received, 

Bitter  the  battle-rush,  warriors  fell  down. 

On  either  hand  the  youths  lay  dead. 

By  coiisent  of  Ginn  &  Co,    Translation  of  Garuett, 


572 


ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 


C^DMON'S   INSPIRATION 


HE  [CiEDMON]  had  remained  in  the  secular  life  until  the  time 
when  he  was  of  advanced  age,  and  he  had  never  learned 
any  song.  For  that  reason  oftentimes,  when  it  was  decided 
at  a  feasting  that  all  should  sing  in  turn  to  the  accompaniment  of 
the  harp  for  the  sake  of  entertainment,  he  would  arise  for  shame 
from  the  banquet  when  he  saw  the  harp  approaching  him,  and 
would  go  home  to  his  house.  When  he  on  a  certain  occasion  had 
done  this,  and  had  left  the  house  of  feasting,  and  had  gone  to 
the  stable  of  the  cattle,  which  had  been  intrusted  to  his  care  for 
that  night;  and  when  he  there,  after  a  reasonable  time,  had 
arranged  his  limbs  for  rest,  he  fell  asleep.  And  a  man  stood  by 
him  in  a  dream,  and  hailed  him,  and  greeted  him,  and  called 
him  by  name,  and  said :  *^  Caedmon,  sing  something  for  me.  ** 
Then  he  answered  and  said:  *I  cannot  sing;  I  went  out  from 
the  feast  and  came  hither  because  I  could  not  sing.^*  Again  said 
the  one  who  was  speaking  with  him :  *  Nevertheless,  thou  canst 
sing  for  me.  '*  Said  Csedmon,  **  What  shall  I  sing  ?  **  Said  he, 
**  Sing  to  me  of  creation.  '^ 

When  Caedmon  received  this  answer,  then  began  he  soon  to 
sing  in  glorification  of  God  the  Creator,  verses  and  words  that  he 
had  never  before  heard. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  ••  • 

Then  he  arose  from  sleep  and  he  had  fast  in  his  memory  all 
those  things  he  had  sung  in  his  sleep;  and  to  these  words  he  soon 
added  many  other  words  of  song  of  the  same  measure,  worthy 
for  God. 

Then  came  he  in  the  morning  to  the  town-reeve,  who  was  his 
aldorman,  and  told  him  of  the  gift  he  had  received.  And  the 
reeve  soon  led  him  to  the  abbess,  and  made  that  known  to  her 
and  told  her.  Then  bade  she  assemble  all  the  very  learned  men, 
and  the  learners,  and  bade  him  tell  the  dream  in  their  presence, 
and  sing  the  song,  so  that  by  the  judgment  of  them  all  it  might 
be  determined  what  it  was,  and  whence  it  had  come.  Then  it 
was  seen  by  them  all,  just  as  it  was,  that  the  heavenly  gift  had 
been  given  him  by  the  Lord  himself. 

Alfred's  <Bede>:  Translation  of  Robert  Sharp. 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE  573 

FROM  THE   <CHRONICLE> 
Selection  from  the  entry  for  the  year  897 

THEN  Alfred,  the   King-,  ordered  long  ships  built  to  oppose  the 
war-ships  of  the  enemy.      They  were  very  nearly  twice  as 
long  as  the  others;   some  had  sixty  oars,  some  more.     They 
were  both  swifter  and  steadier,  and  also  higher  than  the  others; 
they  were  shaped  neither  on  the  Frisian  model  nor  on  the  Danish, 
but  as  it  seemed  to  King  Alfred  that  they  would  be  most  useful. 

Then,  at  a  certain  time  in  that  year,  came  six  hostile  ships  to 
Wight,  and  did  much  damage,  both  in  Devon  and  elsewhere  on 
the  seaboard.  Then  the  King  ordered  that  nine  of  the  new  ships 
should  proceed  thither.  And  his  ships  blockaded  the  mouth  of 
the  passage  on  the  outer-sea  against  the  enemy.  Then  the  Danes 
came  out  with  three  ships  against  the  King's  ships;  but  three  of 
the  Danish  ships  lay  above  the  mouth,  high  and  dry  aground; 
and  the  men  were  gone  off  upon  the  shore.  Then  the  King's 
men  took  two  of  the  three  ships  outside,  at  the  mouth,  and  slew 
the  crews;  but  one  ship  escaped.  On  this  one  all  the  men  were 
slain  except  five;  these  escaped  because  the  King's  ship  got 
aground.  They  were  aground,  moreover,  very  inconveniently, 
since  three  were  situated  upon  the  same  side  of  the  channel  with 
the  three  stranded  Danish  ships,  and  all  the  others  were  upon  the 
other  side,  so  that  there  could  be  no  communication  between  the 
two  divisions.  But  when  the  water  had  ebbed  many  furlongs 
from  the  ships,  then  went  the  Danes  from  their  three  ships  to 
the  King's  three  ships  that  had  been  left  dry  upon  the  same  side 
by  the  ebbing  of  the  tide,  and  they  fought  together  there.  Then 
were  slain  Lucumon,  the  King's  Reeve,  Wulfheard  the  Frisian, 
and  ^bbe  the  Frisian,  and  ^thelhere  the  Frisian,  and  ^thel- 
ferth  the  King's  companion,  and  of  all  the  men  Frisians  and  Eng- 
lish, sixty-two;  and  of  the  Danes,  one  hundred  and  twenty. 

But  the  flood  came  to  the  Danish  ships  before  the  Christians 
could  shove  theirs  out,  and  for  that  reason  the  Danes  rowed  off. 
They  were,  nevertheless,  so  grievously  wounded  that  they  could 
not  row  around  the  land  of  the  South  Saxons,  and  the  sea  cast 
up  there  two  of  the  ships  upon  the  shore.  And  the  men  from 
them  were  led  to  Winchester  to  the  King,  and  he  commanded 
them  to  be  hanged  there.  But  the  men  who  were  in  the  remain- 
ing ship  came  to  East  Anglia,  sorely  wounded. 

Translation  of  Robert  Sharp. 


574 

GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO 

(1864-) 

jN  Italian  poet  and  novelist  of  early  promise,  who  has 
become  a  somewhat  unique  figure  in  contemporary  litera- 
ture, Gabriele  d'Annunzio  is  a  native  of  the  Abruzzi,  born 
in  the  little  village  of  Pescara,  on  the  Adriatic  coast.  Its  picturesque 
scenery  has  formed  the  background  for  more  than  one  of  his  stories. 
At  the  age  of  fifteen,  while  still  a  student  at  Prato,  he  published  his 
first  volume  of  poems,  ^Intermezzo  di  Rime*  (Interludes  of  Verse): 
"grand,  plastic  verse,  of  an  impeccable  prosody,'*  as  he  maintained 
in  their  defense,  but  so  daringly  erotic  that  their  appearance  created 
no  small  scandal.  Other  poems  followed  at  intervals,  notably  *I1 
Canto  Nuovo*  (The  New  Song:  Rome,  1882),  ^Isotteo  e  la  Chimera* 
(Isotteo  and  the  Chimera:  Rome,  1890),  <  Poema  Paradisiaco, *  and 
<  Odi  Navali*  (Marine  Odes:  Milan,  1893),  which  leave  no  doubt  of 
his  high  rank  as  poet.  The  novel,  however,  is  his  chosen  vehicle  of 
expression,  and  the  one  which  gives  fullest  scope  to  his  rich  and 
versatile  genius.  His  first  long  story,  <I1  Piacere*  (Pleasure), 
appeared  in  1889.  As  the  title  implies,  it  was  pervaded  with  a 
frank,  almost  complacent  sensuality,  which  its  author  has  since  been 
inclined  to  deprecate.  Nevertheless,  the  book  received  merited  praise 
for  its  subtle  portrayal  of  character  and  incident,  and  its  exuberance 
of  phraseology;  and  more  than  all,  for  the  promise  which  it  sug- 
gested. With  the  publication  of  <L'Innocente,*  the  author  for  the 
first  time  showed  a  real  seriousness  of  purpose.  His  views  of  life 
had  meanwhile  essentially  altered:  —  **As  was  just,**  he  confessed, 
<^I  began  to  pay  for  my  errors,  my  disorders,  my  excesses:  I  began 
to  suffer  with  the  same  intensity  with  which  I  had  formerly  enjoyed 
myself;  sorrow  had  rftade  of  me  a  new  man.**  Accordingly  his  later 
books,  while  still  emphatically  realistic,  are  chastened  by  an  under- 
lying tone  of  pessimism.  Passion  is  no  longer  the  keynote  of  life, 
but  rather,  as  exemplified  in  <I1  Trionfo  della  Morte,*  the  prelude  of 
death.  Leaving  Rome,  where.  ^*  like  the  outpouring  of  the  sewers, 
a  flood  of  base  desires  invaded  every  square  and  cross-road,  ever 
more  putrid  and  more  swollen,**  D'Annunzio  retired  to  Francovilla- 
al-Mare,  a  few  miles  from  his  birthplace.  There  he  lives  in  seclus- 
ion, esteemed  by  the  simple-minded,  honest,  and  somewhat  fanatical 
peasantry,  to  whose  quaint  and  primitive  manners  his  books  owe 
much  of  their  distinctive  atmosphere. 

In    Italy,    D'Annunzio's    career    has    been    watched    with    growing 
interest.     Until    recently,    however,    he    was    scarcely    known    to    the 


GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZlt)  ^yc 

world  at  large,  when  a  few  poems,  translated  into  French,  brought 
his  name  into  immediate  prominence.  Within  a  year  three  Paris 
journals  acquired  rights  of  translation  from  him,  and  he  has  since 
occupied  the  attention  of  such  authoritative  French  critics  as  Henri 
Rabusson,  Rene  Doumic,  Edouard  Rod,  Eugene-Melchior  de  Vogiie, 
and,  most  recently,  Ferdinand  Brunetiere,  all  of  whom  seem  to  have 
a  clearer  appreciation  of  his  quality  than  even  his  critics  at  home. 
At  the  same  time  there  is  a  small  but  hostile  minority  among  the 
French  novelists,  whose  literary  feelings  are  voiced  by  Leon  Daudet 
in  a  vehement  protest  under  the  title  *Assez  d'Etrangers*  (Enough 
of  Foreigfners). 

It  is  too  soon  to  pass  final  judgment  on  D'Annunzio's  style,  which 
has  been  undergoing  an  obvious  transition,  not  yet  accomplished. 
Realist  and  psychologist,  symbolist  and  mystic  by  turns,  and  first 
and  always  a  poet,  he  has  been  compared  successively  to  Bourget 
and  Maupassant,  Tolstoi  and  Dostoievsky,  Theophile  Gautier  and 
Catulle  Mendes,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  and  Baudelaire.  Such  com- 
plexity of  style  is  the  outcome  of  his  cosmopolitan  taste  in  literature, 
and  his  tendency  to  assimilate  for  future  use  whatever  pleases  him 
in  each  successive  author.  Shakespeare  and  Goethe,  Keats  and  Heine, 
Plato  and  Zoroaster,  figure  among  the  names  which  throng  his  pages; 
while  his  unacknowledged  and  often  unconscious  indebtedness  to 
writers  of  lesser  magnitude, — notably  the  self-styled  <Sar'  Joseph 
Peladan  —  has  lately  raised  an  outcry  of  plagiarism.  Yet  whatever 
leaves  his  pen,  borrowed  or  original,  has  received  the  unmistakable 
imprint  of  his  powerful  individuality. 

It  is  easy  to  trace  the  influences  under  which,  successively, 
D'Annunzio  has  come.  They  are  essentially  French.  He  is  a  French 
writer  in  an  Italian  medium.  His  early  short  sketches,  noteworthy 
chiefly  for  their  morbid  intensity,  were  modeled  largely  on  Maupas- 
sant, whose  frank,  unblushing  realism  left  a  permanent  imprint  upon 
the  style  of  his  admirer,  and  whose  later  analytic  tendency  probably 
had  an  important  share  in  turning  his  attention  to  the  psychological 
school. 

<I1  Piacere,'  though  largely  inspired  by  Paul  Bourget,  contains  as 
large  an  element  of  < Notre  Coeur>  and  < Bel- Ami >  as  of  <Le  Disciple* 
and  <Coeur  de  Femme.'  In  this  novel,  Andrea  Sperelli  affords  us 
the  type  of  D'Annunzio's  heroes,  who,  aside  from  differences  due  to 
age  and  environment,  are  all  essentially  the  same, — somewhat  weak, 
yet  undeniably  attractive;  containing,  all  of  them,  « something  of  a 
Don  Juan  and  a  Cherubini,»  with  the  Don  Juan  element  preponder- 
ating. The  plot  of  <I1  Piacere>  is  not  remarkable  either  for  depth 
or  for  novelty,  being  the  needlessly  detailed  record  of  Sperelli's  rela- 
tions with  two  married  women,  of  totally  opposite  type.*:. 


^76  GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO 

*  Giovanni  Episcopo*  is  a  brief,  painful  tragedy  of  low  life,  written 
under  the  influence  of  Russian  evangelism,  and  full  of  reminiscences 
of  Dostoievsky's  *  Crime  and  Punishment.^  Giovanni  is  a  poor  clerk, 
of  a  weak,  pusillanimous  nature,  completely  dominated  by  a  coarse, 
brutal  companion,  Giulio  Wanzer,  who  makes  him  an  abject  slave, 
until  a  detected  forgery  compels  Wanzer  to  flee  the  country.  Epis- 
copo  then  marries  Ginevra,  the  pretty  but  unprincipled  waitress  at  his 
pension,  who  speedily  drags  him  down  to  the  lowest  depths  of  degra- 
dation, making  him  a  mere  nonentity  in  his  own  household,  willing 
to  live  on  the  proceeds  of  her  infamy.  They  have  one  child,  a  boy, 
Giro,  on  whom  Giovanni  lavishes  all  his  suppressed  tenderness.  After 
ten  years  of  this  martyrdom,  the  hated  Wanzer  reappears  and  installs 
himself  as  husband  in  the  Episcopo  household.  Giovanni  submits  in 
helpless  fury,  till  one  day  Wanzer  beats  Ginevra,  and  little  Giro  inter- 
venes to  protect  his  mother.  Wanzer  turns  on  the  child,  and  a  spark 
of  manhood  is  at  last  kindled  in  Giovanni's  breast.  He  springs  upon 
Wanzer,  and  with  the  pent-up  rage  of  years  stabs  him. 

<L'Innocente,*  D'Annunzio's  second  long  novel,  also  bears  the 
stamp  of  Russian  influence.  It  is  a  gruesome,  repulsive  story  of 
domestic  infidelity,  in  which  he  has  handled  the  theory  of  pardon, 
the  motive  of  numerous  recent  French  novels,  like  Daudet's  *La 
Petite  Paroisse*  and  Paul  Marguerite's  *  La  Tourmente.* 

In  another  extended  work,  <  II  Trionfo  della  Morte  *  (The  Triumph 
of  Death),  D'Annunzio  appears  as  a  convert  to  Nietzsche's  philoso- 
phy and  to  Wagnerianism.  Ferdinand  Brunetiere  has  pronounced  it 
unsurpassed  by  the  naturalistic  schools  of  England,  France,  or  Russia. 
In  brief,  the  hero,  Giorgio  Aurispa,  a  morbid  sensualist,  with  an  in- 
herited tendency  to  suicide,  is  led  by  fate  through  a  series  of  circum- 
stances which  keep  the  thought  of  death  continually  before  him. 
They  finally  goad  him  on  to  fling  himself  from  a  cliff  into  the  sea, 
dragging  with  him  the  woman  he  loves. 

The  'Vergini  della  Rocca*  (Maidens  of  the  Crag),  his  last  story,  is 
more  an  idyllic  poem  than  a  novel.  Claudio  Cantelmo,  sickened  with 
the  corruption  of  Rome,  retires  to  his  old  home  in  the  Abruzzi,  where 
he  meets  the  three  sisters  Massimilla,  Anatolia,  Violante:  "names 
expressive  as  faces  full  of  light  and  shade,  and  in  which  I  seemed 
already  to  discover  an  infinity  of  grace,  of  passion,  and  of  sorrow.*^ 
It  is  inevitable  that  he  should  chose  one  of  the  three,  but  which } 
And  in  the  denouement  the  solution  is  only  half  implied. 

D'Annunzio  is  now  occupied  with  a  new  romance;  and  coming 
years  will  doubtless  present  him  all  the  more  distinctively  as  a  writer 
of  Italy  on  whom  French  inflences  have  been  seed  sowed  in  fertile 
ground.  The  place  in  contemporary  Italian  of  such  work  as  his  is 
indisputably  considerable. 


GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO  577 

THE  DROWNED   BOY 
From  <The  Triumph  of  Death  > 

ALL  of  a  sudden,  Albadora,  the  septuagenarian  Cybele,  she  who 
had  given  life  to  twenty-two  sons  and  daughters,  came 
toiling  up  the  narrow  lane  into  the  court,  and  indicating 
the  neighboring  shore,  where  it  skirted  the  promontory  on  the 
left,  announced  breathlessly: — 

"  Down  yonder  there  has  been  a  child  drowned !  * 

Candia  made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  Giorgio  arose  and  ascended 
to  the  loggia,  to  observe  the  spot  designated.  Upon  the  sand, 
below  the  promontory,  in  close  vicinity  to  the  chain  of  rocks 
and  the  tunnel,  he  perceived  a  blotch  of  white,  presumably  the 
sheet  which  hid  the  little  body.  A  group  of  people  had  gathered 
around  it. 

As  Ippolita  had  gone  to  mass  with  Elena  at  the  chapel  of  the 
Port,  he  yielded  to  his  curiosity  and  said  to  his  entertainers:  — 

**  I  am  going  down  to  see. " 

^^  Why  ?  "^  asked  Candia.  "  Why  do  you  wish  to  put  a  pain  in 
your  heart  ?  *^ 

Hastening  down  the  narrow  lane,  he  descended  by  a  short  cut 
to  the  beach,  and  continued  along  the  water.  Reaching  the  spot, 
somewhat  out  of  breath,  he  inquired:  — 

"  What  has  happened  ?  ^^ 

The  assembled  peasants  saluted  him  and  made  way  for  him. 
One  of  them  answered  tranquilly:  — 

*The  son  of  a  mother  has  been  drowned.* 

Another,  clad  in  linen,  who  seemed  to  be  standing  guard  over 
the  corpse,  bent  down  and  drew  aside  the  sheet. 

The  inert  little  body  was  revealed,  extended  upon  the  unyield- 
ing sand.  It  was  a  lad,  eight  or  nine  years  old,  fair  and  frail, 
with  slender  limbs.  His  head  was  supported  on  his  few  humble 
garments,  rolled  up  in  place  of  pillow, — the  shirt,  the  blue 
trousers,  the  red  sash,  the  cap  of  limp  felt.  His  face  was  but 
slightly  livid,  with  flat  nose,  prominent  forehead,  and  long,  long 
lashes ;  the  mouth  was  half  open,  with  thick  lips  which  were 
turning  blue,  between  which  the  widely  spaced  teeth  gleamed 
white.  His  neck  was  slender,  flaccid  as  a  wilted  stem,  and 
seamed  with  tiny  creases.  The  jointure  of  the  arms  at  the 
shoulder  looked  feeble.  The  arms  themselves  were  fragile,  and 
covered  with  a  down  similar  to  the  fine  plumage  which  clothes 
!— 37 


578 


GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 


the  bodies  of  newly  hatched  birds.  The  whole  outline  of  the 
ribs  was  distinctly  visible;  down  the  middle  of  the  breast  the 
skin  was  divided  by  a  darker  line;  the  navel  stood  out,  like  a 
knot.  The  feet,  slightly  bloated,  had  assumed  the  same  sallow 
color  as  the  little  hands,  which  were  callous  and  strewn  with 
warts,  with  white  nails  beginning  to  turn  livid.  On  the  left  arm, 
on  the  thighs  near  the  groin,  and  further  down,  on  the  knees  and 
along  the  legs,  appeared  reddish  blotches  of  scurf.  Every  detail 
of  this  wretched  little  body  assumed,  in  the  eyes  of  Giorgio,  an 
extraordinary  significance,  immobile  as  it  was  and  fixed  forever 
in  the  rigidity  of  death. 

**  How  was  he  drowned  ?  Where  ?  '*  he  questioned,  lowering 
his  voice. 

The  man  dressed  in  linen  gave,  with  some  show  of  impatience^ 
the  account  which  he  had  probably  had  to  repeat  too  many  times 
already.  He  had  a  brutal  countenance,  square-cut,  with  bushy 
brows,  and  a  large  mouth,  harsh  and  savage.  Only  a  little  while 
after  leading  the  sheep  back  to  their  stalls,  the  lad,  taking  his 
breakfast  along  with  him,  had  gone  down,  together  with  a 
comrade,  to  bathe.  He  had  hardly  set  foot  in  the  water,  when 
he  had  fallen  and  was  drowned.  At  the  cries  of  his  comrade, 
some  one  from  the  house  overhead  on  the  bluff  had  hurried 
down,  and  wading  in  up  to  the  knees,  had  dragged  him  from 
the  water  half  dead;  they  had  turned  him  upside  down  to  make 
him  throw  up  the  water,  they  had  shaken  him,  but  to  no  pur- 
pose. To  indicate  just  how  far  the  poor  little  fellow  had  gone 
in,  the  man  picked  up  a  pebble  and  threw  it  into  the  sea. 

^^ There,  only  to  there;  at  three  yards  from  the  shore!'* 

The  sea  lay  at  rest,  breathing  peacefully,  close  to  the  head  of 
the  dead  child.  But  the  sun  blazed  fiercely  down  upon  the  sand; 
and  something  pitiless,  emanating  from  that  sky  of  flame  and 
from  those  stolid  witnesses,  seemed  to  pass  over  the  pallid  corpse. 

**Why,*  asked  Giorgio,  ^*do  you  not  place  him  in  the  shade, 
in  one  of  the  houses,  on  a  bed  ?  '* 

^^  He  is  not  to  be  moved,**  declared  the  man  on  guard,  ^^  until 
they  hold  the  inquest.** 

^*At  least  carry  him  into  the  shade,  down  there,  below  the 
embankment !  '* 

Stubbornly  the  man  reiterated,   *^  He  is  not  to  be  moved.  '* 

There  could  be  no  sadder  sight  than  that  frail,  lifeless  little 
being,  extended  on  the  stones,  and  watched  over  by  the  impassive 


GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO 


579 


brute  who  repeated  his  account  every  time  in  the  selfsame  words, 
and  every  time  made  the  selfsame  gesture,  throwing  a  pebble 
into  the  sea:  — 

"There;   only  to  there.* 

A  woman  joined  the  group,  a  hook-nosed  termagant,  with 
gray  eyes  and  sour  lips,  mother  of  the  dead  boy's  comrade.  She 
manifested  plainly  a  mistrustful  restlessness,  as  if  she  anticipated 
some  accusation  against  her  own  son.  She  spoke  with  bitterness, 
and  seemed  almost  to  bear  a  grudge  against  the  victim. 

"  It  was  his  destiny.  God  had  said  to  him,  *  Go  into  the  sea 
and  end  yourself.  *  " 

She  gesticulated  with  vehemence.  "What  did  he  go  in  for,  if 
he  did  not  know  how  to  swim  ?  ** 

A  young  lad,  a  stranger  in  the  district,  the  son  of  a  mariner, 
repeated  contemptuously,  "  Yes,  what  did  he  go  in  for  ?  We,  yes, 
who  know  how  to  swim — *     .     .     . 

Other  people  joined  the  group,  gazed  with  cold  curiosity,  then 
lingered  or  passed  on.  A  crowd  occupied  the  railroad  embank- 
ment, another  gathered  on  the  crest  of  the  promontory,  as  if  at  a 
spectacle.  Children,  seated  or  kneeling,  played  with  pebbles,  toss- 
ing them  into  the  air  and  catching  them,  now  on  the  back  and 
now  in  the  hollow  of  their  hands.  They  all  showed  the  same 
profound  indifference  to  the  presence  of  other  people's  troubles 
and  of  death. 

Another  woman  joined  the  group  on  her  way  home  from  mass, 
wearing  a  dress  of  silk  and  all  her  gold  ornaments.  For  her  also 
the  harassed  custodian  repeated  his  account,  for  her  also  he  indi- 
cated the  spot  in  the  water.     She  was  talkative. 

"  I  am  always  saying  to  my  children,  *■  Don't  you  go  into  the 
water,  or  I  will  kill  you !  *  The  sea  is  the  sea.  Who  can  save 
himself  ?  * 

She  called  to  mind  other  instances  of  drowning;  she  called  to 
mind  the  case  of  the  drowned  man  with  the  head  cut  off,  driven 
by  the  waves  all  the  way  to  San  Vito,  and  found  among  the  rocks 
by  a  child. 

"  Here,  among  these  rocks.  He  came  and  told  us,  *  There  is 
a  dead  man  there.  ^  We  thought  he  was  joking.  But  we  came 
and  we  found.  He  had  no  head.  They  had  an  inquest;  he  was 
buried  in  a  ditch;  then  in  the  night  he  was  dug  up  again.  His 
flesh  was  all  mangled  and  like  jelly,  but  he  still  had  his  boots  on. 
The  judge  said,  ^See,   they  are  better  than  mineP     So  he  must 


580  GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO 

have  been  a  rich  man.  And  it  turned  out  that  he  was  a  dealer 
in  cattle.  They  had  killed  him  and  chopped  oif  his  head,  and  had 
thrown  him  into  the  Tronto.^^     .     .     . 

She  continued  to  talk  in  her  shrill  voice,  from  time  to  time 
sucking  in  the  superfluous  saliva  with  a  slight  hissing  sound, 

<^  And  the  mother  ?     When  is  the  mother  coming  ?  * 

At  that  name  there  arose  exclamations  of  compassion  from  all 
the  women  who  had  gathered. 

^^  The  mother  !     There  comes  the  mother,  now !  '* 

And  all  of  them  turned  around,  fancying  that  they  saw  her  in 
the  far  distance,  along  the  burning  strand.  Some  of  the  women 
could  give  particulars  about  her.  Her  name  was  Riccangela;  she 
was  a  widow  with  seven  children.  She  had  placed  this  one  in  a 
farmer's  family,  so  that  he  might  tend  the  sheep,  and  gain  a 
morsel  of  bread. 

One  woman  said,  gazing  down  at  the  corpse,  ^*Who  knows  how 
much  pains  the  mother  has  taken  in  raising  him !  *^  Another  said, 
■**To  keep  the  children  from  going  hungry  she  has  even  had  to 
ask  charity.*^ 

Another  told  how,  only  a  few  months  before,  the  unfortunate 
child  had  come  very  near  strangling  to  death  in  a  courtyard  in  a 
pool  of  water  barely  six  inches  deep.  All  the  women  repeated, 
*'  It  was  his  destiny.     He  was  bound  to  die  that  way.  * 

And  the  suspense  of  waiting  rendered  them  restless,  anxious. 
*^  The  mother !     There  comes  the  mother  now !  " 

Feeling  himself  grow  sick  at  heart,  Giorgio  exclaimed,  ^^  Can't 
you  take  him  into  the  shade,  or  into  a  house,  so  that  the  mother 
will  not  see  him  here  naked  on  the  stones,  under  a  sun  like  this  ?  ** 

Stubbornly  the  man  on  guard  objected:  —  <^  He  is  not  to  be 
touched.     He  is  not  to  be  moved  —  until  the  inquest  is  held.  ^* 

The  bystanders  gazed  in  surprise  at  the  stranger, —  Candia's 
stranger.  Their  number  was  augmenting.  A  few  occupied  the 
embankment  shaded  with  acacias;  others  crowned  the  promon- 
tory rising  abruptly  from  the  rocks.  Here  and  there,  on  the 
monstrous  bowlders,  a  tiny  boat  lay  sparkling  like  gold  at  the 
foot  of  the  detached  crag,  so  lofty  that  it  gave  the  effect  of  the 
ruins  of  some  Cyclopean  tower,  confronting  the  immensity  of 
the  sea. 

All  at  once,  from  above  on  the  height,  a  voice  announced, 
"There  she  is.» 

Other  voices  followed: — "The  mother!    The  mother!** 


GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO  ^gl 

All  turned.  Some  stepped  down  from  the  embankment. 
Those  on  the  promontory  leaned  far  over.  All  became  silent, 
in  expectation.  The  man  on  guard  drew  the  sheet  once  more 
over  the  corpse.  In  the  midst  of  the  silence,  the  sea  barely 
seemed  to  draw  its  breath,  the  acacias  barely  rustled.  And 
then  through  the  silence  they  could  hear  her  cries  as  she  drew 
near. 

The  mother  came  along  the  strand,  beneath  the  sun,  crying 
aloud.  She  was  clad  in  widow's  mourning.  She  tottered  along 
the  sand,  with  bowed  body,  calling  out,  "  O  my  son !     My  son !  * 

She  raised  her  palms  to  heaven,  and  then  struck  them  upon 
her  knees,  calling  out,  "  My  son !  ** 

One  of  her  older  sons,  with  a  red  handkerchief  bound  around 
his  neck,  to  hide  some  sore,  followed  her  like  one  demented, 
dashing  aside  his  tears  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  She  ad- 
vanced along  the  strand,  beating  her  knees,  directing  her  steps 
toward  the  sheet.  And  as  she  called  upon  her  dead,  there 
issued  from  her  mouth  sounds  scarcely  human,  but  rather  like 
the  howling  of  some  savage  dog.  As  she  drew  near,  she  bent 
over  lower  and  lower,  she  placed  herself  almost  on  all  fours-;  till, 
reaching  him,  she  threw  herself  with  a  howl    upon  the  sheet. 

She  arose  again.  With  hand  rough  and  toil-stained,  hand 
toughened  by  every  variety  of  labor,  she  uncovered  the  body. 
She  gazed  upon  it  a  few  instants,  motionless  as  though  turned 
to  stone.  Then  time  and  time  again,  shrilly,  with  all  the  power 
of  her  voice,  she  called  as  if  trying  to  awaken  him,  ^*My  son! 
My  son !     My  son !  ** 

Sobs  suffocated  her.  Kneeling  beside  him,  she  beat  her 
sides  furiously  with  her  fists.  She  turned  her  despairing  eyes 
around  upon  the  circle  of  strangers.  During  a  pause  in  her 
paroxysms  she  seemed  to  recollect  herself.  And  then  she  began 
to  sing.  She  sang  her  sorrow  in  a  rhythm  which  rose  and 
fell  continually,  like  the  palpitation  of  a  heart.  It  was  the 
ancient  monody  which  from  time  immemorial,  in  the  land  of 
the  Abruzzi,  the  women  have  sung  over  the  remains  of  their 
relatives.  It  was  the  melodious  eloquence  of  sacred  sorrow, 
which  renewed  spontaneously,  in  the  profundity  of  her  being, 
this  hereditary  rhythm  in  which  the  mothers  of  bygone  ages 
had  modulated  their  lamentations. 

She  sang  on  and  on:  —  ^<Open  your  eyes,  arise  and  walk,  my 
son !     How  beautiful  you  are !     How  beautiful  you  are !  *^ 


582 


GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO 


■  She  sang  on :  — "  For  a  morsel  of  bread  I  have  drowned  yotv, 
my  son!  For  a  morsel  of  bread  I  have  borne  you  to  tho 
slaughter !     For  that  have  I  raised  you !  '* 

But  the  irate  woman  with  the  hooked  nose  interrupted  her:  — 
*It  was  not  you  who  drowned  him;  it  was  Destiny,  It  was  not 
you  who  took  him  to  the  slaughter.  You  had  placed  him  in  the 
midst  of  bread.  ^*  And  making  a  gesture  toward  the  hill  where 
the  house  stood  which  had  sheltered  the  lad,  she  added,  **They 
kept  him  there,  like  a  pink  at  the  ear.** 

The  mother  continued: — "O  my  son,  who  was  it  sent  you; 
who  was  it  sent  you  here,  to  drown  ?  '* 

And  the  irate  woman :  —  ^*  Who  was  it  sent  him  ?  It  was  ouY 
Lord.     He  said  to  him,  *  Go  into  the  water  and  end  yourself.*** 

As  Giorgio  was  affirming  in  a  low  tone  to  one  of  the  by- 
standers that  if  succored  in  time  the  child  might  have  been 
saved,  and  that  they  had  killed  him  by  turning  him  upside  down 
and  holding  him  suspended  by  the  feet,  he  felt  the  gaze  of  the 
mother  fixed  upon  him.  "  Can't  you  do  'something  for  him,  sir  ?  ** 
she  prayed.     **  Can't  you  do  something  for  him  ?  ** 

And  she  prayed:  —  ^*0  Madonna  of  the  Miracles,  work  a  mir- 
acle for  him !  ** 

Touching  the  head  of  the  dead  boy,  she  repeated :  —  <^  My 
son !  my  son !  my  son !  arise  and  walk !  ** 

On  his  knees  in  front  of  her  was  the  brother  of  the  dead 
boy;  he  was  sobbing,  but  without  grief,  and  from  time  to  time 
he  glanced  around  with  a  face  that  suddenly  grew  indifferent. 
Another  brother,  the  oldest  one,  remained  at  a  little  distance, 
seated  in  the  shade  of  a  bowlder;  and  he  was  making  a  great 
show  of  grief,  hiding  his  face  in  his  hands.  The  women,  striv- 
ing to  console  the  mother,  were  bending  over  her  with  gestures 
of  compassion,  and  accompanying  her  monody  with  an  occasional 
lament. 

And  she  sang  on:  —  "Why  have  I  sent  you  forth  from  my 
house  ?  Why  have  I  sent  you  to  your  death  ?  I  have  done 
everything  to  keep  my  children  from  hunger;  everything,  every- 
thing, except  to  be  a  woman  with  a  price.  And  for  a  morsel  of 
bread  I  have  lost  you!     This  was  the  way  you  were  to  die!** 

Thereupon  the  woman  with  the  hawk  nose  raised  her  petti- 
coats in  an  impetus  of  wrath,  entered  the  water  up  to  her  knees, 
and  cried :  — "  Look !  He  came  only  to  here.  Look !  The  water 
is  like  oil.     It  is  a  sign  that  he  was  bound  to  die  that  way.** 


GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO 


583^ 


With  two  strides  she  regained  the  shore.  **  Look !  **  she  re- 
peated, pointing  to  the  deep  imprint  in  the  sand  made  by  the 
man  who  recovered  the  body.     *^  Look  I  " 

The  mother  looked  in  a  dull  way;  but  it  seemed  as  if  she 
neither  saw  nor  comprehended.  After  her  first  wild  outbursts  of 
gfrief,  there  came  over  her  brief  pauses,  amounting  to  an  obscure- 
ment  of  consciousness.  She  would  remain  silent,  she  would 
touch  her  foot  or  her  leg  with  a  mechanical  gesture.  Then  she 
would  wipe  away  her  tears  with  the  black  apron.  She  seemed 
to  be  quieting  down.  Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  a  fresh  explosion 
would  shake  her  from  head  to  foot,  and  prostrate  her  upon  the 
corpse. 

^*And  I  cannot  take  you  away!  I  cannot  take  you  in  these 
arms  to  the  church !     My  son !     My  son !  * 

She  fondled  him  from  head  to  foot,  she  caressed  him  softly. 
Her  savage  anguish  was  softened  to  an  infinite  tenderness.  Her 
hand  —  the  burnt  and  callous  hand  of  a  hard-working  woman  — 
became  infinitely  gentle  as  she  touched  the  eyes,  the  mouth,  the 
forehead  of  her  son. 

**  How  beautiful  you  are !     How  beautiful  you  are  I  ** 

She  touched  his  lower  lip,  already  turned  blue;  and  as  she 
pressed  it  slightly,  a  whitish  froth  issued  from  the  mouth.  From 
between  his  lashes  she  brushed  away  some  speck,  very  carefully, 
as  though  fearful  of  hurting  him. 

**  How  beautiful  you  are,  heart  of  your  mamma!** 

His  lashes  were  long,  very  long,  and  fair.  On  his  temples,  on 
his  cheeks  was  a  light  bloom,  pale  as  gold. 

*^  Do  you  not  hear  me  ?     Rise  and  walk.  ** 

She  took  the  little  well-worn  cap,  limp  as  a  rag.  She  gazed 
at  it  and  kissed  it,  saying :  — 

**  I  am  going  to  make  myself  a  charm  out  of  this,  and  wear  it 
always  on  my  breast.** 

She  lifted  the  child;  a  quantity  of  water  escaped  from  the 
mouth  and  trickled  down  upon  the  breast. 

"  O  Madonna  of  the  Miracles,  perform  a  miracle !  **  she  prayed, 
raising  her  eyes  to  heaven  in  a  supreme  supplication.  Then  she 
laid  softly  down  again  the  little  being  who  had  been  so  dear  to 
her,  and  took  up  the  worn  shirt,  the  red  sash,  the  cap.  She 
rolled  them  up  together  in  a  little  bundle,  and  said:  — 

"  This  shall  be  my  pillow ;  on  these  I  shall  rest  my  head, 
always,  at  night;  on  these  I  wish  to  die.** 


5^4 


GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 


She  placed  these  humble  relics  on  the  sand,  beside  the  head 
of  her  child,  and  rested  her  temple  on  them,  stretching  herself 
out,  as  if  on  a  bed. 

Both  of  them,  mother  and  son,  now  lay  side  by  side,  on  the 
hard  rocks,  beneath  the  flaming  sky,  close  to  the  homicidal  sea. 
And  now  she  began  to  croon  the  very  lullaby  which  in  the  past 
had  diffused  pure  sleep  over  his  infant  cradle. 

She  took  up  the  red  sash  and  said,  ^^  I  want  to  dress  him.^^ 

The  cross-grained  woman,  who  still  held  her  ground,  assented. 
**Let  us  dress  him  now.*^ 

And  she  herself  took  the  garments  from  under  the  head  of  the 
dead  boy;  she  felt  in  the  jacket  pocket  and  found  a  slice  of  bread 
and  a  fig, 

*  Do  you  see  ?  They  had  given  him  his  food  just  before, — 
just  before.     They  cared  for  him  like  a  pink  at  the  ear.^* 

The  mother  gazed  upon  the  little  shirt,  all  soiled  and  torn, 
over  which  her  tears  fell  rapidly,  and  said,  *^  Must  I  put  that 
shirt  on  him  ?  " 

The  other  woman  promptly  raised  her  voice  to  some  one  of 
her  family,  above  on  the  bluff :  — *^  Quick,  bring  one  of  Nufrillo's 
new  shirts!*^  The  new  shirt  was  brought.  The  mother  flung 
herself  down  beside  him. 

**  Get  up,  Riccangela,  get  up !  *  solicited  the  women  around  her. 

She  did  not  heed  them.  *^  Is  my  son  to  stay  like  that  on  the 
stones,  and  I  not  stay  there  too?  —  like  that,  on  the  stones,  my 
own  son  ?  ** 

**  Get  up,   Riccangela,  come  away.  ^^ 

She  arose.  She  gazed  once  more  with  terrible  intensity  upon 
the  little  livid  face  of  the  dead.  Once  again  she  called  with  all 
the  power  of  her  voice,   "  My  son !     My  son !     My  son !  *^ 

Then  with  her  own  hands  she  covered  up  with  the  sheet  the 
unheeding  remains. 

And  the  women  gathered  around  her,  drew  her  a  little  to  one 
side,  under  shadow  of  a  bowlder;  they  forced  her  to  sit  down, 
they  lamented  with  her. 

Little  by  little  the  spectators  melted  away.  There  remained 
only  a  few  of  the  women  comforters;  there  remained  the  man 
clad  in  linen,  the  impassive  custodian,  who  was  awaiting  the 
inquest. 

The  dog-day  sun  poured  down  upon  the  strand,  and  lent  to 
the    funeral    sheet    a    dazzling   whiteness.      Amidst   the    heat    the 


GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO  585 

promontory  raised  its  desolate  aridity  straight  upward  from  the 
tortuous  chain  of  rocks.  The  sea,  immense  and  green,  pursued 
its  constant,  even  breathing.  And  it  seemed  as  if  the  languid 
hour  was  destined  never  to  come  to  an  end. 

Under  shadow  of  the  bowlder,  opposite  the  white  sheet,  which 
was  raised  up  by  the  rigid  form  of  the  corpse  beneath,  the 
mother  continued  her  monody  in  the  rhythm  rendered  sacred  by 
all  the  sorrows,  past  and  present,  of  her  race.  And  it  seemed  as 
if  her  lamentation  was  destined  never  to  come  to  an  end. 


TO  An  impromptu  of  chopin 


w 


HEN  thou  upon  my  breast  art  sleeping, 
I  hear  across  the  midnight  gray  — 

I  hear  the  muffled  note  of  weeping, 
So  near  —  so  sad  —  so  far  away! 


All  night  I  hear  the  teardrops  falling — 

Each  drop  by  drop  —  my  heart  must  weep; 

I  hear  the  falling  blood-drops  —  lonely. 

Whilst  thou  dost  sleep  —  whilst  thou  dost  sleep. 

From  <The  Triumph  of  Death.' 


INDIA 

INDIA  —  whose  enameled  page  unrolled 
Like  autumn's  gilded  pageant,  'neath  a  sun 
That  withers  not  for  ancient  kings  undone 
Or  gods  decaying  in  their  shrines  of  gold  — 

Where  were  thy  vaunted  princes,  that  of  old 

Trod  thee  with  thunder  —  of  thy  saints  was  none 
To  rouse  thee  when  the  onslaught  was  begun. 

That  shook  the  tinseled  sceptre  from  thy  hold.' 

Dead  —  though  behind  thy  gloomy  citadels 
The  fountains  lave  their  baths  of  porphyry; 

Dead  —  though  the  rose-trees  of  thy  myriad  dells 
Breathe  as  of  old  their  speechless  ecstasy; 

Dead  —  though  within  thy  temples,  courts,  and  cells, 
Their  countless  lamps  still  supplicate  for  thee. 

Translated  by  Thomas  Walsh,  for  <A  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature,- 


586 


ANTAR 

(About  550-615) 
BY  EDWARD   S.   HOLDEN 

Jrabia  was  opened  to  English  readers  first  by  Sale's  transla- 
tion of  the  <Ktiran,>  in  1734;  and  by  English  versions  of 
the  ^Arabian  Nights >  from  17 12  onward.  The  latter  were 
derived  from  Galland's  translation  of  the  <  Thousand  and  One  Nights,  > 
which  began  to  appear,  in  French,  in  1704.  Next  to  nothing  was 
generally  known  of  Oriental  literature  from  that  time  until  the  end 
of  the  eighteenth  century.  The  East  India  Company  fostered  the 
study  of  the  classics  of  the  extreme  Orient;  and  the  first  Napoleon 
opened  Egypt, — his  savans  marched  in  the  centre  of  the  invading 
squares. 

The  flagship  of  the  English  fleet  which  blockaded  Napoleon's  army 
carried  an  Austro-German  diplomatist  and  scholar,  —  Baron  von  Ham- 
mer-Purgstall, — part  of  whose  mission  was  to  procure  a  complete 
manuscript  of  the  <  Arabian  Nights.*  It  was  then  supposed  that  these 
tales  were  the  daily  food  of  all  Turks,  Arabians,  and  Syrians.  To 
the  intense  surprise  of  Von  Hammer,  he  learned  that  they  were 
never  recited  in  the  coffee-houses  of  Constantinople,  and  that  they 
were  not  to  be  found  at  all  outside  of  Egypt. 

His  dismay  and  disappointment  were  soon  richly  compensated, 
however,  by  the  discovery  of  the  Arabian  romance  of  ^Antar,*  the 
national  classic,  hitherto  unknown  in  Europe,  except  for  an  enthu- 
siastic notice  which  had  fallen  by  chance  into  the  hands  of  Sir 
William  Jones.  The  entire  work  was  soon  collected.  It  is  of  inter- 
minable length  in  the  original,  being  often  found  in  thirty  or  forty 
manuscript  volumes  in  quarto,  in  seventy  or  eighty  in  octavo.  Por- 
tions of  it  have  been  translated  into  English,  German,  and  French. 
English  readers  can  consult  it  best  in  ^Antar,*  a  Bedouin  romance, 
translated  from  the  Arabic  by  Terrick  Hamilton,  in  four  volumes 
8vo  (London,  1820).  Hamilton's  translation,  now  rare,  covers  only  a 
portion  of  the  original ;  and  a  new  translation,  suitably  abridged,  is 
much  needed. 

The  book  purports  to  have  been  written  more  than  a  thousand 
years  ago,  —  in  the  golden  prime  of  the  Caliph  Hariin-al-Rashid 
(786-809)  and  of  his  sons  and  successors,  Amin  (809-813)  and  Mamun 
(813-834), — by  the  famous  As-Asmai  (born  741,  died  about  830).  It 
is  in  fact  a  later  compilation,  probably  of  the  twelth  century.    (Baron 


ANTAR 


•  •  » *^  * 


ANTAR 


587 


von  Hammer's  MS.  was  engrossed  in  the  year  1466.)  Whatever  the 
exact  date  may  have  been,  it  was  probably  not  much  later  than  A.  D. 
1200.  The  main  outlines  of  Antar's  life  are  historical.  Many  partic- 
ulars are  derived  from  historic  accounts  of  the  lives  of  other  Arabian 
heroes  (Duraid  and  others)  and  are  transferred  bodily  to  the  biogra- 
phy of  Antar.  They  date  back  to  the  sixth  centui^*.  Most  of  the 
details  must  be  imaginary,  but  they  are  skillfully  contrived  by  a 
writer  who  knew  the  life  of  the  desert  Arab  at  first  hand.  The 
verses  with  which  the  volumes  abound  are  in  many  cases  undoubt- 
edly Antar's.  (They  are  printed  in  italics  in  what  follows.)  In  any 
event,  the  book  in  its  present  form  has  been  the  delight  of  all 
Arabians  for  many  centuries.  Every  wild  Bedouin  of  the  desert 
knew  much  of  the  tale  bj^  heart,  and  listened  to  its  periods  and  to 
its  poems  with  quivering  interest.  His  more  cultivated  brothers  of 
the  cities  possessed  one  or  many  of  its  volumes.  Every  coffee-house 
in  Aleppo,  Bagdad,  or  Constantinople  had  a  narrator  who,  night  after 
night,  recited  it  to  rapt  audiences. 

The  unanimous  opinion  of  the  East  has  always  placed  the  romance 
.of  < Antar*  at  the  summit  of  such  literature.  As  one  of  their  authors 
well  says:  —  **The  Thousand  and  One  Nights*  is  for  the  amusement 
of  women  and  children;  *  Antar*  is  a  book  for  men.  From  it  they 
learn  lessons  of  eloquence,  of  mag^nanimity,  of  generosity,  and  of 
statecraft.**  Even  the  prophet  Muhammad,  well-known  foe  to  poetry 
and  to  poets,  instructed  his  disciples  to  relate  to  their  children  the 
traditions  concerning  Antar,  ®for  these  will  steel  their  hearts  harder 
than  stone.** 

The  book  belongs  among  the  great  national  classics,  like  the 
<Shah-nameh*  and  the  *  Nibelungen-Lied.  *  It  has  a  direct  relation  to 
Western  culture  and  opinion  also.  Antar  was  the  father  of  knight- 
hood. He  was  the  preux-chevalier,  the  champion  of  the  weak  and 
oppressed,  the  protector  of  women,  the  impassioned  lover-poet,  the 
irresistible  and  magnanimous  knight.  European  chivalry  in  a  marked 
degree  is  the  child  of  the  chivalry  of  his  time,  which  traveled  along 
the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea  and  passed  with  the  Moors  into 
Spain  (710).  Another  current  flowed  from  Arabia  to  meet  and  to 
modify  the  Greeks  of  Constantinople  and  the  early  Crusaders;  and 
still  another  passed  from  Persia  into  Palestine  and  Europe.  These 
fertilized  Provencal  poetry,  the  French  romance,  the  earlj^  Italian 
epic.  The  <Shah-nameh*  of  Firdausi,  that  model  of  a  heroic  poem, 
was  written  early  in  the  eleventh  century.  ^ Antar*  in  its  present 
form  probably  preceded  the  romances  of  chivalry  so  common  in  the 
twelfth  century  in  Italy  and  France. 

Antarah  ben  Shedad  el  Absi  (Antar  the  Lion,  the  Son  of  She- 
dad  of  the   tribe   of  Abs),  the   historic  Antar    was  bom   about   the 


c88  ANTAR 

middle  of  the  sixth  century  of  our  era,  and  died  about  the  year  615, 
forty-five  years  after  the  birth  of  the  prophet  Muhammad,  and  seven 
years  before  the  Hijra  —  the  Flight  to  Medina  —  with  which  the 
Muhammadan  era  begins.  His  father  was  a  noble  Absian  knight. 
The  romance  makes  him  the  son  of  an  Abyssinian  slave,  who  is 
finally  discovered  to  be  a  powerful  princess.  His  skin  was  black. 
He  was  despised  by  his  father  and  family  and  set  to  tend  their 
camels.  His  extraordinary  strength  and  valor  and  his  remarkable 
poetic  faculty  soon  made  him  a  marked  man,  in  a  community  in 
which  personal  valor  failed  of  its  full  value  if  it  were  not  celebrated 
in  brilliant  verse.  His  love  for  the  beautiful  Ibla  (Ablah  in  the 
usual  modern  form),  the  daughter  of  his  uncle,  was  proved  in  hun- 
dreds of  encounters  and  battles;  by  many  adventurous  excursions  in 
search  of  fame  and  booty;  by  thousands  of  verses  in  her  honor. 

The  historic  Antar  is  the  author  of  one  of  the  seven  <<  suspended 
poems.*  The  common  explanation  of  this  term  is  that  these  seven 
poems  were  judged,  by  the  assemblage  of  all  the  Arabs,  worthy  to 
be  written  in  golden  letters  (whence  their  name  of  the  < golden 
odes'),  and  to  be  hung  on  high  in  the  sacred  Kaabah  at  Mecca.. 
Whether  this  be  true,  is  not  certain.  They  are  at  any  rate  accepted 
models  of  Arabic  style.  Antar  was  one  of  the  seven  greatest  poets 
of  his  poetic  race.  These  "suspended  poems*  can  now  be  studied  in 
the  original  and  in  translation,  by  the  help  of  a  little  book  pub- 
lished in  London  in  1894,  ^  The  Seven  Poems,*  by  Captain  F.  E. 
Johnson,  R.  A. 

The  Antar  of  the  romance  is  constantly  breaking  into  verse  which 
is  passionately  admired  by  his  followers.  None  of  its  beauties  of 
form  are  preserved  in  the  translation;  and  indeed,  this  is  true  of  the 
prose  forms  also.  It  speaks  volumes  for  the  manly  vigor  of  the 
original  that  it  can  be  transferred  to  an  alien  tongue  and  yet  preserve 
great  qualities.  To  the  Arab  the  Avork  is  a  masterpiece  both  in  form 
and  content.  Its  prose  is  in  balanced,  rhythmic  sentences  ending  in 
full  or  partial  rhymes.  This  "  cadence  of  the  cooing  dove  *  is  pure 
music  to  an  Eastern  ear.  If  any  reader  is  interested  in  Arabic  verse, 
he  can  readily  satisfy  his  curiosity.  An  introduction  to  the  subject 
is  given  in  the  Terminal  Essay  of  Sir  Richard  Burton's  <  Arabian 
Nights'  (Lady  Burton's  edition.  Vol.  vi.,  page  340).  The  same  sub- 
ject is  treated  briefly  and  very  clearly  in  the  introduction  to  Ly all's 
*  Ancient  Arabian  Poetry' — a  book  well  worth  consulting  on  other 
accounts. 

The  story  itself  appeals  to  the  Oriental's  deepest  feelings,  pass- 
ions, ideals:  — 


ANTAR 


589 


«To  realize  the  impetuous  feelings  of  the  Arab,*  says  Von  Hammer,  «you 
must  have  heard  these  tales  narrated  to  a  circle  of  Bedouins  crowded  about 
the  orator  of  the  desert.  .  .  .  It  is  a  veritable  drama,  in  which  the  spec- 
tators are  the  actors  as  well.  If  the  hero  is  threatened  with  imminent 
danger,  they  shudder  and  cry  aloud,  <No,  no,  no;  Allah  forbid!  that  cannot 
be!>  If  he  is  in  the  midst  of  tumult  and  battle,  mowing  down  rank  after 
rank  of  the  enemy  with  his  sword,  they  seize  their  own  weapons  and  rise  to 
fly  to  his  rescue.  If  he  falls  into  the  snares  of  treachery,  their  foreheads 
contract  with  angry  indignation  and  they  exclaim,  <The  curse  of  Allah  be  on 
the  traitor  !>  If  the  hero  at  last  sinks  under  the  superior  forces  of  the  enemy, 
a  long  and  ardent  sigh  escapes  from  their  breasts,  with  the  farewell  blessing, 
<  Allah's  compassion  be  with  him  —  may  he  rest  in  peace.  >  .  .  .  Descriptions 
of  the  beauties  of  nature,  especially  of  the  spring,  are  received  with  exclama- 
tions. Nothing  equals  the  delight  which  sparkles  in  every  eye  when  the 
narrator  draws  a  picture  of  feminine  beauty.  >> 

The  question  as  to  the  exact  relation  of  the  chivalry  of  Europe  to 
the  earlier  chivalry  of  Arabia  and  of  the  East  is  a  large  one,  and 
one  which  must  be  left  to  scholars.  It  is  certain  that  Spenser  and 
Sir  Philip  Sidney  owe  far  more  to  Saladin  than  we  commonly  sup- 
pose. The  tales  of  Boccaccio  (1350)  show  that  the  Italians  of  that 
day  still  held  the  Arabs  to  be  their  teachers  in  chivalry,  and  at  least 
their  equals  in  art,  science,  and  civilization;  and  the  Italy  of  1300 
was  a  century  in  advance  of  the  rest  of  Europe.  In  1268  two  broth- 
ers of  the  King  of  Castile,  with  800  other  Spanish  gentlemen,  were 
serving  under  the  banners  of  the  Muslim  in  Tunis.  The  knightly 
ideal  of  both  Moors  and  Spaniards  was  to  be 

«Like  steel  among  swords, 
Like  wax  among  ladies.® 

Hospitality,  generosity,  magnanimity,  the  protection  of  the  weak, 
punctilious  observance  of  the  plighted  faith,  pride  of  birth  and 
lineage,  glory  in  personal  valor  —  these  were  the  knightly  virtues 
common  to  Arab  and  Christian  warriors.  Antar  and  his  knights,  Ibla 
and  her  maidens,  are  the  Oriental  counterparts  of  Launcelot  and 
Arthur,  of  Guinevere  and  Iseult. 

The  primary  duty  of  the  early  Arab  was  biood-revenge.  An 
insult  to  himself,  or  an  injury  to  the  tribe,  must  be  wiped  out  with 
the  blood  of  the  offender.  Hence  arose  the  multitude  of  tribal  feuds. 
It  was  Muhammad  who  first  checked  the  private  feud  by  fixing  *the 
price  of  blood  >^  to  be  paid  by  the  aggressor  or  by  his  tribe.  In  the 
time  of  Antar  revenge  was  the  foremost  duty.  Ideals  of  excellence 
change  as  circumstances  alter.  Virtues  go  out  of  fashion  (like  the 
magnificence  of  Aristotle),  or  acquire  an  entirely  new  importance 
(as  veracity,  since  England  became  a  trading  nation).  Some  day  we 
may  possess  a  natural  history  of  the  virtues. 


5 go  ANTAR 

The  service  of  the  loved  one  by  the  early  Arab  was  a  passion 
completely  different  from  the  vain  gallantry  of  the  mediaeval  knight 
of  Europe.  He  sought  for  the  complete  possession  of  his  chosen 
mistress,  and  was  eager  to  earn  it  by  multitudes  of  chivalric  deeds; 
but  he  could  not  have  understood  the  sentimentalities  of  the  Trou- 
badours. The  systematic  fantasies  of  the  <*  Courts  of  Love  '*  would 
have  seemed  cold  follies  to  Arab  chivalry  —  as  indeed  they  are, 
though  they  have  led  to  something  better.  In  generosity,  in  mag- 
nanimity, the  Arab  knight  far  surpassed  his  European  brother.  Hos- 
pitality was  a  point  of  honor  to  both.  As  to  the  noble  Arabs  of  those 
days,  when  any  one  demanded  their  protection,  no  one  ever  inquired 
what  was  the  matter;  for  if  he  asked  any  questions,  it  would  be  said 
of  him  that  he  was  afraid.  The  poets  have  thus  described  them  in 
verse : — 

«They  rise  when  any  one  calls  out  to  them,  and 
they  haste  before  asking  any  questions; 
they  aid  him  against  his  enemies 
that  seek  his  life,  and  they  return 
honored  to  their  families. » 

The  Arab  was  the  knight  of  the  tent  and  the  desert.  His  deeds 
were  immediately  known  to  his  fellows;  discussed  and  weighed  in 
every  household  of  his  tribe.  The  Christian  knight  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  living  isolated  in  his  stronghold,  was  less  immediately  affected 
by  the  opinions  of  his  class.  Tribal  allegiance  was  developed  in  the 
first  case,  independence  in  the  second. 

Scholars  tell  us  that  the  romance  of  *Antar'  is  priceless  for  faith- 
ful pictures  of  the  times  before  the  advent  of  Muhammad,  which  are 
confirmed  by  all  that  remains  of  the  poetry  of  <Hhe  days  of  ignorance.*' 
To  the  general  reader  its  charm  lies  in  its  bold  and  simple  stories 
of  adventure;  in  its  childlike  enjoyment  of  the  beauty  of  Nature; 
in  its  pictures  of  the  elemental  passions  of  ambition,  pride,  love, 
hate,  revenge.  Antar  was  a  poet,  a  lover,  a  warrior,  a  born  leader. 
From  a  keeper  of  camels  he  rose  to  be  the  protector  of  the  tribe  of 
Abs  and  the  pattern  of  chivalry,  by  virtue  of  great  natural  powers 
and  in  the  face  of  every  obstacle.  He  won  possession  of  his  Ibla 
and  gave  her  the  dower  of  a  queen,  by  adventures  the  like  of  which 
were  never  known  before.  There  were  no  Ifrits  or  Genii  to  come  to 
his  aid,  as  in  the  <  Thousand  Nights  and  a  Night.  >  <  Antar '  is  the 
epic  of  success  crowning  human  valor;  the  tales  in  the  < Arabian 
Nights,'  at  their  best,  are  the  fond  fancies  of  the  fatalist  whose  best 
endeavor  is  at  the  mercy  of  every  capricious  Jinni. 

The  < Arabian  Nights'  contains  one  tale  of  the  early  Arabs, — the 
story  of  Gharib  and  his  brother  Ajib, — which  repeats  some  of  the 


ANTAR  591 

exploits  of  Antar;  a  tale  far  inferior  to  the  romance.  The  excellences 
of  the  *  Arabian  Nights*  are  of  another  order.  We  must  look  for 
them  in  the  pompous  enchantments  of  the  City  of  Brass,  or  in  the 
tender  constancy  of  Aziz  and  Azizah,  or  in  the  tale  of  Hasan  of 
Bassorah,  with  its  lovely  study  of  the  friendship  of  a  foster-sister, 
and  its  wonderful  presentment  of  the  magic  surroundings  of  the 
country  of  the  Jann. 

To  select  specimens  from  <  Antar  >  is  like  selecting  from  <  Robinson 
Crusoe.  >  In  the  romance,  Antar's  adventures  go  on  and  on,  and  the 
character  of  the  hero  develops  before  one's  eyes.  It  may  be  that  the 
leisure  of  the  desert  is  needed  fully  to  appreciate  this  master-work. 


^.^id^Lt^ 


THE  VALOR  OF   ANTAR 

Now  Antar  was  becoming  a  big  boy,  and  grew  up,  and  used 
to  accompany  his  mother,  Zebeeba,  to  the  pastures,  and 
he  watched  the  cattle;  and  this  he  continued  to  do  till  he 
increased  in  stature.  He  used  to  walk  and  run  about  to  harden 
himself,  till  at  length  his  muscles  were  strengthened,  his  frame 
altogether  more  robust,  his  bones  more  firm  and  solid,  and  his 
speech  correct.  His  days  were  passed  in  roaming  about  the 
mountain  sides;  and  thtis  he  continued  till  he  attained  his  tenth 
year. 

[He  now  kills  a  wolf  which  had  attacked  his  father's  flocks,  and  breaks 
into  verse  to  celebrate  his  victory: — ] 

O  thou  wolf,  eager  for  death,  I  have  left  thee  wallowing  in  dust,  and 
spoiled  of  life;  thou  wouldst  have  the  run  of  my  flocks,  but  I  have  left 
thee  dyed  with  blood;  thou  7vouldst  disperse  my  sheep,  and  thou  knowest  I 
am  a  lion  that  never  fears.  This  is  the  raay  I  treat  thee,  thou  dog  of  the 
desert.     Hast  thou  rver  before  seen  battle  and  wars? 

[His  next  adventure  brought  him  to  the  notice  of  the  chief  of  the  tribe, — 
King  Zoheir.  A  slave  of  Prince  Shas  insulted  a  poor,  feeble  woman  who  was 
tending  her  sheep;  on  which  Antar  « dashed  him  against  the  gfround.  And 
his  length  and  breadth  were  all  one  mass.»  This  deed  won  for  Antar  the 
hatred  of  Prince  Shas,  the  friendship  of  the  gentle  Prince  Malik,  and  the 
praise  of  the  king,  their  father.  « This  valiant  fellow,**  said  the  king,  « has 
defended  the  honor  of  women. »] 


\ 


592  ANTAR 

From  that  day  both  King  Zoheir  and  his  son  Malik  conceived 
a  great  affection  for  Antar,  and  as  Antar  returned  home,  the 
women  all  collected  around  him  to  ask  him  what  had  happened; 
among  them  were  his  aunts  and  his  cousin,  whose  name  was 
Ibla.  Now  Ibla  was  younger  than  Antar,  and  a  merry  lass. 
She  was  lovely  as  the  moon  at  its  full;  and  perfectly  beautiful 
and  elegant.  .  .  .  One  day  he  entered  the  house  of  his  uncle 
Malik  and  found  his  aunt  combing  his  cousin  Ibla's  hair,  which 
flowed  down  her  back,  dark  as  the  shades  of  night.  Antar  was 
quite  surprised;  he  was  greatly  agitated,  and  could  pay  no  atten- 
tion to  anything;  he  was  anxious  and  thoughtful,  and  his  anguish 
daily  became  more  oppressive. 

[Meeting  her  at  a  feast,  he  addressed  her  in  verse: — ] 

The  lonely  virgvi  has  struck  my  heart  7vith  the  arroiv  of  a  glance,  for 
which  there  is  no  cure.  Sometitnes  she  wishes  for  a  feast  in  the  sandhills, 
like  a  faivn  whose  eyes  are  full  of  magic.  She  moi<es;  I  should  say  it 
was  the  branch  of  the  Tatnarisk  that  waves  its  branches  to  the  southern 
breeze.  She  approaches;  I  should  say  it  was  the  frightened  fawn,  when  a 
calamity  alarms  it  in  the  waste. 

When  Ibla  heard  from  Antar  this  description  of  her  charms, 
she  was  in  astonishment.  But  Antar  continued  in  this  state  for 
days  and  nights,  his  love  and  anguish  ever  increasing. 

[Antar  resolves  to  be  either  tossed  upon  the  spear-heads  or  numbered 
among  the  noble ;  and  he  wanders  into  the  plain  of  lions.] 

As  soon  as  Antar  found  himself  in  it,  he  said  to  himself, 
Perhaps  I  shall  now  find  a  lion,  and  I  will  slay  him.  Then, 
behold  a  lion  appeared  in  the  middle  of  the  valley;  he  stalked 
about  and  roared  aloud;  wide  were  his  nostrils,  and  fire  flashed 
from  his  eyes;  the  whole  valley  trembled  at  every  gnash  of  his 
fangs — he  was  a  calamity,  and  his  claws  more  dreadful  than  the 
deadliest  catastrophe  —  thunder  pealed  as  he  roared  —  vast  was 
his  strength,  and  his  force  dreadful  —  broad  were  his  paws, 
and  his  head  immense.  Just  at  that  moment  Shedad  and  his 
brothers  came  up.  They  saw  Antar  address  the  lion,  and  heard 
the  verses  that  he  repeated;  he  sprang  forward  like  a  hailstorm, 
and  hissed  at  him  like  a  black  serpent  —  he  met  the  lion  as  he 
sprang  and  outroared  his  bellow;  then,  giving  a  dreadful  shriek, 
he  seized  hold  of  his  mouth  with  his  hand,  and  wrenched  it 
open  to  his  shoulders,  and  he  shouted  aloud  —  the  valley  and  the 
country  round  echoed  back  the  war. 


ANTAR 


593 


[Those  who  were  watching  were  astonished  at  his  prowess,  and  began  to 
fear  Antar.  The  horsemen  now  set  off  to  attack  the  tribe  of  Temeem,  leav« 
ing  the  slaves  to  gfuard  the  women.] 

Antar  was  in  transports  on  seeing  Ibla  appear  with  the  other 
women.  She  was  indeed  like  an  amorous  fawn;  and  when 
Antar  was  attending  her,  he  was  overwhelmed  in  the  ocean  of 
his  love,  and  became  the  slave  of  her  sable  tresses.  They  sat 
down  to  eat,  and  the  wine-cups  went  merrily  round.  It  was 
the  spring  of  the  year,  when  the  whole  land  shone  in  all  its 
glory;  the  vines  hung  luxuriantly  in  the  arbors;  the  flowers 
shed  around  ambrosial  fragrance;  ever}'-  hillock  sparkled  in  the 
beauty  of  its  colors;  the  birds  in  responsive  melody  sang  sweetly 
from  each  bush,  and  harmonj^  issued  from  their  throats;  the 
ground  was  covered  with  flowers  and  herbs;  while  the  nightin- 
gales filled  the  air  with  their  softest  notes. 

[While  the  maidens  were  singing  and  sporting,  lo!  on  a  sudden  appeared 
a  cloud  of  dust  walling  the  horizon,  and  a  vast  clamor  arose.  A  troop  of 
horses  and  their  riders,  some  seventy  in  number,  rushed  forth  to  seize  the 
women,  and  made  them  prisoners.  Antar  instantly  rescues  Ibla  from  her 
captors  and  engages  the  enemy.] 

He  rushed  forward  to  meet  them,  and  harder  than  flint  was 
his  heart,  and  in  his  attack  was  their  fate  and  destiny.  He 
returned  home,  taking  with  him  five-and-twenty  horses,  and  all 
the  women  and  children.  Now  the  hatred  of  Semeeah  (his 
stepmother)  was  converted  into  love  and  tenderness,  and  he 
became  dearer  to  her  than  sleep, 

[He  had  thenceforward  a  powerful  ally  in  her,  a  fervent  friend  in 
Prince  Malik,  a  wily  counselor  in  his  brother  Shiboob.  And  Antar  made  gfreat 
progress  in  Ibla's  heart,  from  the  verses  that  he  spoke  in  her  praise;  such 
verses  as  these: — ] 

7  love  thee  with  the  love  of  a  tioble-born  hero;  and  I  am  content  with 
thy  imaginary  phantom.  Thou  art  my  sovereign  in  my  very  blood;  and 
my  mistress;    and  in  thee  is  all  my  confidence. 

[Antar's  astonishing  valor  gained  him  the  praise  of  the  noble  Absian 
knights,  and  he  was  emboldened  to  ask  his  father  Shedad  to  acknowledge 
him  for  his  son,  that  he  might  become  a  chief  among  the  Arabs.  Shedad, 
enraged,  drew  his  sword  and  rushed  upon  Antar  to  kill  him,  but  was  pre- 
vented by  Semeeah.  Antar,  in  the  greatest  agony  of  spirit,  ^vas  ashamed 
that  the  day  should  dawn  on  him  after  this  refusal,  or  that  he  should  remain 
any  longer  in  the  country.  He  mounted  his  horse,  put  on  his  armor,  and 
traveled  on  till  he  was  far  from  the  tents,  and  he  knew  not  whither  he  was 
going.] 

1-38 


594  ANTAR 

Antar  had  proceeded  some  way,  when  lo!  a  knight  rushed 
out  from  the  ravines  in  the  rocks,  mounted  on  a  dark-colored 
colt,  beautiful  and  compact,  and  of  a  race  much  prized  among 
the  Arabs;  his  hoofs  were  as  flat  as  the  beaten  coin;  when  he 
neighed  he  seemed  as  if  about  to  speak,  and  his  ears  were  like 
quills;  his  sire  was  Wasil  and  his  dam  Hemama.  When  Antar 
cast  his  eye  upon  the  horse,  and  observed  his  speed  and  his  paces, 
he  felt  that  no  horse  could  surpass  him,  so  his  whole  heart  and 
soul  longed  for  him.  And  when  the  knight  perceived  that  Antar 
was  making  toward  him,  he  spurred  his  horse  and  it  fled  beneath 
him;  for  this  was  a  renowned  horseman  called  Harith,  the  son  of 
Obad,  and  he  was  a  valiant  hero, 

[By  various  devices  Antar  became  possessed  of  the  noble  horse  Abjer, 
whose  equal  no  prince  or  emperor  could  boast  of.  His  mettle  was  soon  tried 
in  an  affray  with  the  tribe  of  Maan,  headed  by  the  warrior  Nakid,  who  was 
ferocious  as  a  lion.] 

When  Nakid  saw  the  battle  of  Antar,  and  how  alone  he  stood 
against  five  thousand,  and  was  making  them  drink  of  the  cup  of 
death  and  perdition,  he  was  overwhelmed  with  astonishment  at 
his  deeds.  "  Thou  valiant  slave,  **  he  cried,  *'  how  powerful  is  thine 
arm  —  how  strong  thy  wrist !  '*  And  he  rushed  down  upon  Antar. 
And  Antar  presented  himself  before  him,  for  he  was  all  anxiety 
to  meet  him.  "  O  thou  base-born !  **  cried  Nakid.  But  Antar 
permitted  him  not  to  finish  his  speech,  before  he  assaulted  him 
with  the  assault  of  a  lion,  and  roared  at  him;  he  was  horrified 
and  paralyzed  at  the  sight  of  Antar.  Antar  attacked  him,  thus 
scared  and  petrified,  and  struck  him  with  his  sword  on  the  head, 
and  cleft  him  down  the  back;  and  he  fell,  cut  in  twain,  from 
the  horse,  and  he  was  split  in  two  as  if  by  a  balance;  and  as 
Antar  dealt  the  blow  he  cried  out,  ^*0h,  by  Abs!  oh,  by  Adnan! 
I  am  ever  the  lover  of  Ibla.»  No  sooner  did  the  tribe  of  Muan 
behold  Antar's  blow,  than  every  one  was  seized  with  fear  and 
dismay.  The  whole  five  thousand  made  an  attack  like  the  attack 
of  a  single  man;  but  Antar  received  them  as  the  parched  ground 
receives  the  first  of  the  rain.  His  eyeballs  were  fiery  red,  and 
foam  issued  from  his  lips;  whenever  he  smote  he  cleft  the  head; 
every  warrior  he  assailed,  he  annihilated;  he  tore  a  rider  from  the 
back  of  his  horse,  he  heaved  him  on  high,  and  whirling  him  in 
the  air  he  struck  down  another  with  him,  and  the  two  instantly 
expired.     ^*  By  thine  eyes,  Ibla,'>  he  cried,   <*  to-day  will  I  destroy 


ANTAR  595 

all  this  race.*  Thus  he  proceeded  until  he  terrified  the  warriors, 
and  huried  them  into  woe  and  disgrace,  hewing  off  their  arms 
and  their  joints. 

[At  the  moment  of  Antar's  victory  his  friends  arrive  to  see  his  triumph. 
On  his  way  back  with  them  he  celebrates  his  love  for  Ibla  in  verses.] 

When  the  breezes  blow  from  Mount  Saadi,  their  freshness  cabns  the  fire 
of  my  love  and  transports.  .  .  .  Jifer  throat  complains  of  the  darkness 
of  her  necklaces.  Alas!  the  effects  of  that  throat  and  that  necklace!  Will 
fortune  rcer,  O  daughter  of  Malik,  ever  bless  7ne  with  thy  embrace,  that 
ivould  cure  my  heart  of  the  sorrows  of  loi'e?  If  fny  eye  could  see  her 
baggage  camels,  and  her  fatnily,  I  would  rub  my  cheeks  on  the  hoofs  of 
her  camels.  I  will  kiss  the  earth  where  thou  art;  mayhap  the  fire  of  my 
love  and  ecstasy  may  be  quenched.  .  .  .  I  am  the  well-known  Antar, 
the  chief  of  his  tribe,  and  I  shall  die;  but  when  I  am  gone,  histories  shall 
tell  of  me. 

[From  that  day  forth  Antar  was  named  Abool-fawaris,  that  is  to  say,  the 
father  of  horsemen.  His  sword,  Dhami  —  the  trenchant  —  was  forged  from  a 
meteor  that  fell  from  the  sky;  it  was  two  cubits  long  and  two  spans  wide.  If 
it  were  presented  to  Nushirvan,  King  of  Persia,  he  would  exalt  the  giver  with 
favors;  or  if  it  were  presented  to  the  Emperor  of  Europe,  one  would  be 
enriched  ^vith  treasures  of  gold  and  silver.] 

As  soon  as  Gheidac  saw  the  tribe  of  Abs,  and  Antar  the 
destroyer  of  horsemen,  his  heart  was  overjoyed  and  he  cried  out, 
**  This  is  a  glorious  morning ;  to-day  will  I  take  my  revenge.  *  So 
he  assailed  the  tribe  of  Abs  and  Adnan,  and  his  people  attacked 
behind  him  like  a  cloud  when  it  pours  forth  water  and  rains. 
And  the  Knight  of  Abs  assaulted  them  likewise,  anxious  to  try 
his  sword,  the  famous  Dhami.  And  Antar  fought  with  Gheidac, 
and  wearied  him,  and  shouted  at  him,  and  filled  him  with  horror; 
then  assailed  him  so  that  stirrup  grated  stirrup;  and  he  struck 
him  on  the  head  with  Dhami.  He  cleft  his  visor  and  wadding, 
and  his  sword  played  away  between  the  eyes,  passing  through 
his  shoulders  down  to  the  back  of  the  horse,  even  down  \o  the 
ground;  and  he  and  his  horse  made  four  pieces;  and  to  the  strict- 
est observer,  it  would  appear  that  he  had  divided  them  with 
scales.  And  God  prospered  Antar  in  all  that  he  did,  so  that  he 
slew  all  he  aimed  at,  and  overthrew  all  he  touched. 

"Nobility,*^  said  Antar,  << among  liberal  men,  is  the  thrust  of 
the  spear,  the  blow  of  the  sword,  and  patience  beneath  the  battle- 
dust.  I  am  the  physician  of  the  tribe  of  Abs  in  sickness,  their 
protector  in   disgrace,  the  defender  of  their  wives  when  they  are 


596  ANTAR 

in    trouble,    their  horseman   when   they  are    in    glory,    and   their 
sword  when  they  rush  to  arms.*^ 

[This  was  Antar's  speech  to  Monzar,  King  of  the  Arabs,  when  he  was  in 
search  of  Ibla's  dowry.  He  found  it  in  the  land  of  Irak,  where  the  magnificent 
Chosroe  was  ready  to  reward  him  even  to  the  half  of  his  kingdom,  for  his 
victory  over  the  champion  of  the  Emperor  of  Europe.] 

<<A11  this  grandeur,  and  all  these  gifts,*  said  Antar,  «have 
no  value  to  me,  no  charm  in  my  eyes.  Love  of  my  native  land 
is  the  fixed  passion  of  my  soul." 

"Do  not  imagine,"  said  Chosroe,  "that  we  have  been  able 
duly  to  recompense  you.  What  we  have  given  you  is  perish- 
.able,  as  everything  human  is,  but  your  praises  and  your  poems 
will  endure  forever." 

[Antar's  wars  made  him  a  Nocturnal  Calamity  to  the  foes  of  his  tribe. 
He  was  its  protector  and  the  champion  of  its  women,  «for  Antar  was  particu- 
larly sohcitous  in  the  cause  of  women.»  His  generosity  knew  no  bounds. 
« Antar  immediately  presented  the  whole  of  the  spoil  to  his  father  and  his 
uncles;  and  all  the  tribe  of  Abs  were  astonished  at  his  noble  conduct  and 
filial  love.w  His  hospitality  was  universal;  his  magnanimity  ^vithout  limit. 
«Do  not  bear  malice,  O  Shiboob.  Renounce  it;  for  no  good  ever  came  of 
malice.  Violence  is  infamous;  its  result,  is  ever  uncertain,  and  no  one  can 
act  justly  when  actuated  by  hatred.  Let  my  heart  support  every  evil,  and 
let  my  patience  endure  till  I  have  subdued  all  my  foes.»  Time  after  time  he 
won  new  dowries  for  Ibla,  even  bringing  the  treasures  of  Persia  to  her  feet. 
Treacheries  without  count  divided  him  from  his  promised  bride.  Over  and 
over  again  he  rescued  her  from  the  hands  of  the  enemy;  and  not  only  her, 
but  her  father  and  her  hostile  kinsmen. 

At  last  (in  the  fourth  volume,  on  the  fourteen  hundred  and  fifty-third 
page)  Antar  makes  his  wedding  feasts.] 

"I  wish  to  make  at  Ibla's  wedding  five  separate  feasts;  I  will 
feed  the  birds  and  the  beasts,  the  men  and  the  women,  the 
girls  and  the  boys,  and  not  a  single  person  shall  remain  in  the 
whole  country  but  shall   eat  at   Ibla's  marriage   festival." 

Antar  was  at  the  summit  of  his  happiness  and  delight,  con- 
gratulating himself  on  his  good  fortune  and  perfect  felicity,  all 
trouble  and  anxiety  being  now  banished  from  his  heart.  Praise 
be  to  God,  the  dispenser  of  all  grief  from  the  hearts  of  virtuous 
men. 

[The  three  hundred  and  sixty  tribes  of  the  Arabs  were  invited  to  the 
feast,  and  on  the  eighth  day  the  assembled  chiefs  presented  their  gifts  — 
horses,  armor,  slaves,  perfumes,  gold,  velvet,  camels.     The  number  of  slaves 


LUCIUS  APULEIUS  597 

Antar  received  that  day  was  /  five-and-twenty  hundred,  to  each  of  whom  he 
gave  a  damsel,  a  horse,  and  weapons.  And  they  all  mounted  when  he  rode 
out,  and  halted  when  he  halted.] 

Now  when  all  the  Arab  chiefs  had  presented  their  offerings, 
each  according  to  his  circumstances,  Antar  rose,  and  called  out 
to  Mocriul-Wahsh : — ^*  O  Knight  of  Syria,*  said  he,  *let  all  the 
he  and  she  camels,  high-priced  horses,  and  all  the  various  rari- 
ties I  have  received  this  day,  be  a  present  from  me  to  you.  But 
the  perfumes  of  ambergris,  and  fragrant  musk,  belong  to  my 
cousin  Ibla;  and  the  slaves  shall  form  my  army  and  troops." 
And  the  Arab  chiefs  marveled  at  his  generosity. 

And  now  Ibla  was  clothed  in  the  most  magnificent  garments, 
and  superb  necklaces;  they  placed  the  coronet  of  Chosroe  on 
her  head,  and  tiaras  round  her  forehead.  They  lighted  brilliant 
and  scented  candles  before  her — the  perfumes  were  scattered  — 
the  torches  blazed  —  and  Ibla  came  forth  in  state.  All  present 
gave  a  shout;  while  the  malicious  and  ill-natured  cried  aloud, 
"What  a  pity  that  one  so  beautiful  and  fair  should  be  wedded 
to  one  so  black ! " 

[The  selections  are  from  Hamilton's  translation.  Two  long  episodes  in 
< Antar >  are  especially  noteworthy:  the  famous  horse  race  between  the  cham- 
pions of  the  tribes  of  Abs  and  Fazarah  (Vol.  iv.,  Chapter  33),  and  the  history 
of  Khahd  and  Jaida  (Vol.  ii..  Chapter  11).] 


LUCIUS  APULEIUS 

(Second  Century  A.  D.) 

|*ucius  APULEIUS,  author  of  the  brilliant  Latin  novel  <The  Met- 
amorphoses,* also  called  <The  [Golden]  Ass,* — and  more 
generally  known  under  that  title, — will  be  remembered 
when  many  greater  writers  shall  have  been  forgotten.  The  downfall 
of  Greek  political  freedom  brought  a  period  of  intellectual  develop- 
ment fertile  in  prose  story-telling, — short  fables  and  tales,  novels 
philosophic  and  religious,  historical  and  satiric,  novels  of  love,  novels 
of  adventure.  Yet,  strange  to  say,  while  the  instinct  was  prolific  in 
the  Hellenic  domain  of  the  Roman  Empire,  it  was  for  the  most  part 
sterile  in  Italy,  though  Roman  life  was  saturated  with  the  influence 
of  Greek  culture.  Its  only  tw^o  notable  examples  are  Petronius  Arbiter 
and  Apuleius,  both  of  whom  belong  to  the  first  two  centuries  of  the 
Christian  epoch. 


598 


LUCIUS  APULEIUS 


The  suggestion  of  the  plan  of  the  novel  familiarly  known  as  <The 
Golden  Ass^  was  from  a  Greek  source,  Lucius  of  Patrae.  The  ori- 
ginal version  was  still  extant  in  the  days  of  Photius,  Patriarch  of  the 
Greek  Church  in  the  ninth  century.  Lucian,  the  Greek  satirist,  also 
utilized  the  same  material  in  a  condensed  form  in  his  *■  Lucius,  or  the 
Ass.^  But  Apuleius  greatly  expanded  the  legend,  introduced  into  it 
numerous  episodes,  and  made  it  the  background  of  a  vivid  picture  of 
the  manners  and  customs  of  a  corrupt  age.  Yet  underneath  its  lively 
portraiture  there  runs  a  current  of  mysticism  at  variance  with  the 
naive  rehearsal  of  the  hero's  adventures,  and  this  has  tempted  critics 
to  find  a  hidden  meaning  in  the  story.  Bishop  Warburton,  in  his 
<  Divine  Legation  of  Moses,*  professes  to  see  in  it  a 
defense  of  Paganism  at  the  expense  of  struggling 
Christianity.  While  this  seems  absurd,  it  is  fairly 
evident  that  the  mind  of  the  author  was  busied  with 
something  more  than  the  mere  narration  of  rollicking 
adventure,  more  even  than  a  satire  on  Roman  life. 
The  transformation  of  the  hero  into  an  ass,  at  the 
moment  when  he  was  plunging  headlong  into  a  licen- 
A  tious  career,   and  the  recovery  of  his  manhood   again 

through  divine  intervention,  suggest  a  serious  symbol- 
ism. The  beautiful  episode  of  <  Cupid  and  Psyche,*  which  would  lend 
salt  to  a  production  far  more  corrupt,  is  also  suggestive.  Apuleius 
perfected  this  wild  flower  of  ancient  folk-lore  into  a  perennial  plant 
that  has  blossomed  ever  since  along  the  paths  of  literature  and  art. 
The  story  has  been  accepted  as  a  fitting  embodiment  of  the  struggle 
of  the  soul  toward  a  higher  perfection;  yet,  strange  to  say,  the 
episode  is  narrated  with  as  brutal  a  realism  as  if  it  were  a  satire  of 
Lucian,  and  its  style  is  belittled  with  petty  affectations  of  rhetoric.  It 
is  the  enduring  beauty  of  the  conception  that  has  continued  to  fasci- 
nate. Hence  we  may  say  of  <The  Golden  Ass*  in  its  entirety,  that 
whether  readers  are  interested  in  esoteric  meanings  to  be  divined,  or 
in  the  author's  vivid  sketches  of  his  own  period,  the  novel  has  a 
charm  which  long  centuries  have  failed  to  dim. 

Apuleius  was  of  African  birth  and  of  good  family,  his  mother 
having  come  of  Plutarch's  blood.  The  second  century  of  the  Roman 
Empire,  when  he  lived  (4ie  was  born  at  Madaura  about  A.  D.  139), 
was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  periods  in  history, — brilliant  in  its  social 
gayety,  in  its  intellectual  activities,  and  in  the  splendor  of  its  achieve- 
ments. The  stimulus  of  the  age  spurred  men  far  in  good  and  evil. 
Apuleius  studied  at  Carthage,  and  afterward  at  Rome,  both  philosophy 
and  religion,  though  this  bias  seems  not  to  have  dulled  his  taste  for 
worldly  pleasure.  Poor  in  purse,  he  finally  enriched  himself  by 
marrying  a  wealthy  widow   and  inheriting  her   property.      Her   will 


LUCIUS  APULEIUS  e^p 

was  contested  on  the  ground  that  this  handsome  and  accomplished 
young  literary  man  had  exercised  magic  in  winning  his  elderly  bride! 
The  successful  defense  of  Apuleius  before  his  judges — a  most  divert 
ing  composition,  so  jaunty  and  full  of  witty  impertinences  that  it  is 
evident  he  knew  the  hard-headed  Roman  judges  would  dismiss  the 
prosecution  as  a  farce — is  still  extant  under  the  name  of  *The  Apol- 
ogy*; or.  Concerning  Magic.  ^  This  in  after  days  became  oddly  jumbled 
with  the  story  of  *The  Golden  Ass*  and  its  transformations,  so  that 
St.  Augustine  was  inclined  to  believe  Apuleius  actually  a  species  of 
professional  wizard. 

The  plot  of  *The  Golden  Ass*  is  very  simple.  Lucius  of  Madaura, 
a  young  man  of  property,  sets  out  on  his  travels  to  sow  his  wild 
oats.  He  pursues  this  pleasant  occupation  with  the  greatest  zeal 
according  to  the  prevailing  mode:  he  is  no  moralist.  The  partner  of 
his  first  intrigue  is  the  maid  of  a  woman  skilled  in  witchcraft.  The 
curiosity  of  Lucius  being  greatly  exercised  about  the  sorceress  and 
her  magic,  he  importunes  the  girl  to  procure  from  her  mistress 
a  magic  salve  which  will  transform  him  at  will  into  an  owl.  By 
mistake  he  receives  the  wrong  salve;  and  instead  of  the  bird  meta- 
morphosis which  he  had  looked  for,  he  undergoes  an  unlooked-for 
change  into  an  ass.  In  this  guise,  and  in  the  service  of  various  mas- 
ters, he  has  opportunities  of  observing  the  follies  of  men  from  a 
novel  standpoint.  His  adventures  are  numerous,  and  he  hears  many 
strange  stories,  the  latter  being  chronicled  as  episodes  in  the  record 
of  his  experiences.  At  last  the  goddess  Isis  appears  in  a  dream,  and 
obligingly  shows  him  the  way  to  effect  his  second  metamorphosis,  by 
aid  of  the  high  priest  of  her  temple,  where  certain  mysteries  are 
about  to  be  celebrated.  Lucius  is  freed  from  his  disguise,  and  is 
initiated  into  the  holy  rites. 

<The  Golden  Ass*  is  full  of  dramatic  power  and  variety.  The 
succession  of  incident,  albeit  grossly  licentious  at  times,  engages  the 
interest  without  a  moment's  dullness.  The  main  narrative,  indeed, 
is  no  less  entertaining  than  the  episodes.  The  work  became  a  model 
for  story-writers  of  a  much  later  period,  even  to  the  times  of  Field- 
ing and  Smollett.  Boccaccio  borrowed  freely  from  it;  at  least  one  of 
the  many  humorous  exploits  of  Cervantes's  <  Don  Quixote  *  can  be 
attributed  to  an  adventure  of  Lucius;  while  <Gil  Bias*  abounds  in 
reminiscences  of  the  Latin  novel.  The  student  of  folk-lore  will  easily 
detect  in  the  tasks  imposed  by  Venus  on  her  unwelcome  daughter-in- 
law,  in  the  episode  of  *  Cupid  and  Psyche,*  the  possible  original  from 
which  the  like  fairy  tales  of  Europe  drew  many  a  suggestion.  Prob- 
ably Apuleius  himself  was  indebted  to  still  earlier  Greek  sources. 

Scarcely  any  Latin  production  was  more  widely  known  and  studied 
from  the  beginning  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  to  the  middle  of  the 


6oo  LUCIUS  APXJLEIUS 

seventeenth  century.  In  its  style,  however,  it  is  far  from  classic.  It 
is  full  of  archaisms  and  rhetorical  conceits.  In  striving  to  say  things 
finely,  the  author  frequently  failed  to  say  them  well.  This  fault, 
however,  largely  disappears  in  the  translation;  and  whatever  may  be 
the  literary  defects  of  the  novel,  it  offers  rich  compensation  in  the 
liveliness,  humor,  and  variety  of  its  substance. 

In  addition  to  ^The  Golden  Ass,*  the  extant  writings  of  Apuleius 
include  < Florida*  (an  anthology  from  his  own  works),  <The  God  of 
Socrates,*  <The  Philosophy  of  Plato,*  and  *  Concerning  the  World,*  a 
treatise  once  attributed  to  Aristotle.  The  best  modern  edition  of  his 
complete  works  is  that  of  Hildebrand  (Leipzig,  1842);  of  the  <  Meta- 
morphoses,* that  of  Eyssenhardt  (Berlin,  1869).  There  have  been 
many  translations  into  .  the  modern  languages.  The  best  English 
versions  are  those  of  T.  Taylor  (London,  1822);  of  Sir  G.  Head,  some- 
what expurgated  (London,  185 1);  and  an  unsigned  translation  pub- 
lished in  the  Bohn  Library,  which  has  been  drawn  on  for  this  work, 
but  greatly  rewritten  as  too  stiff  and  prolix,  and  in  the  conversations 
often  wholly  unnatural.  A  very  pretty  edition  in  French,  with  many 
illustrations,  is  that  of  Savalete  (Paris,   1872). 


THE  TALE  OF  ARISTOMENES,  THE  COMMERCIAL  TRAVELER 

From  <The  Metamorphoses* 

I  AM  a  native  of  ^gina,  and  I  travel  in  Thessaly,  ^tolia,  and 
Boeotia  to  purchase  honey  of  Hypata,  cheese,  and  other  arti- 
cles used  in  cookery.  Having  heard  that  at  Hypata,  the 
principal  city  of  Thessaly,  fine-flavored  new  cheese  was  for  sale 
cheap,  I  made  the  best  of  my  way  there  to  buy  it  all  up.  But 
as  usual,  happening  to  start  left  foot  foremost,  which  is  unlucky, 
all  my  hopes  of  profit  came  to  nothing;  for  a  fellow  named 
Lupus,  a  merchant  who  does  things  on  a  big  scale,  had  bought 
the  whole  of  it  the  day  before. 

Weary  with  my  hurried  journey  to  no  purpose,  I  was  going 
early  in  the  evening  to  the  public  baths,  when  to  my  surprise  I 
espied  an  old  companion  of  mine  named  Socrates.  He  was  sit- 
ting on  the  ground,  half  covered  with  a  rag-tag  cloak,  and  looking 
like  somebody  else,  he  was  so  miserably  wan  and  thin, — in  fact, 
just  like  a  street  beggar;  so  that  though  he  used  to  be  my  friend 
and  close  acquaintance,  I  had  two  minds  about  speaking  to  him. 
"  How  now,  friend  Socrates !  **  said  I :  *^  what  does  this  mean  ? 
Why  are  you  tricked  out  like  this  ?      What  crime  have  you  been 


LUCIUS  APULEIUS  6oi 

guilty  of  ?  Why,  you  look  as  though  your  family  had  given 
you  up  for  dead  and  held  your  funeral  long  ago,  the  probate 
judge  had  appointed  guardians  for  your  children,  and  your  wife, 
disfigfured  by  her  long  mourning,  having  cried  herself  almost 
blind,  was  being  worried  by  her  parents  to  sit  up  and  take 
notice  of  things,  and  look  for  a  new  marriage.  Yet  now,  all  of 
a  sudden,  here  you  come  before  us  like  a  wretched  ghost  from 
the  dead,  to  turn  everything  upside  down !  ** 

*0  Aristomenes !  **  said  he,  "it's  clear  that  you  don't  know 
the  slippery  turns,  the  freaks,  and  the  never-ending  tricks  of 
fortune.  ^^ 

As  he  said  this,  he  hid  his  face,  crimson  with  shame,  in  his 
one  garment  of  patches  and  tatters.  I  could  not  bear  such  a 
miserable  sight,  and  tried  to  raise  him  from  the  ground.  But  he 
kept  saying  with  his  head  all  covered  up,  "Let  me  alone!  let 
me  alone!  let  Fortune  have  her  way  with  me!^^ 

However,  I  finally  persuaded  him  to  go  with  me;  and  at  the 
same  time  pulling  off  one  of  my  own  garments,  I  speedily  clothed 
him,  or  at  any  rate  covered  him.  I  next  took  him  to  a  bath, 
scrubbed  and  oiled  him  myself,  and  laboriously  rubbed  the  matted 
dirt  off  him.  Having  done  all  I  could,  though  tired  out  myself, 
I  supported  his  feeble  steps,  and  with  great  difficulty  brought 
him  to  my  inn.  There  I  made  him  lie  down  on  a  bed,  gave  him 
plenty  of  food,  braced  him  up  with  wine,  and  entertained  him 
with  the  news  of  the  day.  Pretty  soon  our  conversation  took  a 
merry  turn;  we  cracked  jokes,  and  grew  noisy  as  we  chattered. 
All  of  a  sudden,  heaving  a  bitter  sigh  from  the  bottom  of  his 
chest,  and  striking  his  forehead  violently  with  his  right  hand,  he 
said :  — 

"Miserable  wretch  that  I  am,  to  have  got  into  such  a  predica- 
ment while  having  a  good  time  at  a  gladiatorial  show!  As  you 
know,  I  went  to  Macedonia  on  business;  it  took  me  ten  months; 
I  was  on  my  way  home  with  a  very  neat  sum  of  money,  and  had 
nearly  reached  Larissa,  which  I  included  in  my  route  in  order  to 
see  the  show  I  mentioned,  when  I  was  attacked  by  robbers  in  a 
lonely  valley,  and  only  escaped  after  losing  everything  I  had.  In 
my  distress  I  betook  myself  to  a  certain  woman  named  Meroe, 
who  kept  a  tavern  (and  who,  though  rather  old,  was  very  good- 
looking),  and  told  her  about  my  long  absence,  my  earnest  desire 
to  reach  home,  and  my  being  robbed  that  very  day.  She  treated 
me    with    the    greatest    kindness,    gave    me    a    good    supper    for 


6o2  LUCIUS  APULEIUS 

nothing,  and  then  let  me  make  love  to  her.  But  from  the  very 
moment  that  I  was  such  a  fool  as  to  dally  with  her,  my  mind 
seemed  to  desert  me.  I  even  gave  her  the  clothes  which  the 
robbers  in  common  decency  had  left  me,  and  the  little  earnings 
I  made  there  by  working  as  cloakmaker  so  long  as  I  was  in  good 
physical  condition;  until  at  length  this  kind  friend,  and  bad  luck 
together,  reduced  me  to  the  state  you  just  now  found  me  in.^^ 

"By  Pollux,  then,"  said  I,  "you  deserve  to  suffer  the  very 
worst  misfortunes  (if  there  be  anything  worse  than  the  worst), 
for  having  preferred  a  wrinkled  old  reprobate  to  your  home  and 
children. " 

"  Hush !  hush !  *^  said  he,  putting  his  forefinger  on  his  lips,  and 
looking  round  with  a  terror-stricken  face  to  see  if  we  were  alone. 
"  Beware  of  reviling  a  woman  skilled  in  the  black  art,  for  fear  of 
doing  yourself  a  mischief.  ^^ 

"Say  you  so?**  said  I.  "What  kind  of  a  woman  is  this  inn- 
keeper, so  powerful  and  dreadful  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  sorceress,  **  he  replied,  "  and  possessed  of  magic 
powers;  she  can  draw  down  the  heavens,  make  the  earth  heave, 
harden  the  running  water,  dissolve  mountains,  raise  the  shades  of 
the  dead,  dethrone  the  gods,  extinguish  the  stars,  and  set  the 
very  depths  of  Tartarus  ablaze !  ** 

"Come,  come!**  said  I:  "end  this  tragic  talk,  fold  up  your 
theatrical  drop-scenes,  and  let  us  hear  your  story  in  every-day 
language.  ** 

"  Should  you  like,  **  said  he,  "  to  hear  of  one  or  two,  yes,  or  a 
great  many  of  her  performances  ?  Why,  to  make  not  only  her 
fellow-countrymen,  but  the  Indians,  the  Ethiopians,  or  even  the 
Antipodeans,  love  her  to  distraction,  are  only  the  easy  lessons  of 
her  art,  as  it  were,  and  mere  trifles.  Listen  to  what  she  has 
done  before  many  witnesses.  By  a  single  word  she  changed  a 
lover  into  a  beaver,  because  he  had  gone  to  another  flame.  She 
changed  an  innkeeper,  a  neighbor  of  hers  she  was  envious 
of,  into  a  frog;  and  now  the  old  fellow,  swimming  about  in  a 
cask  of  his  own  wine,  or  buried  in  the  dregs,  croaks  hoarsely  to 
his  old  customers, — quite  in  the  way  of  business.  She  changed 
another  person,  a  lawyer  from  the  Forum,  into  a  ram,  because  he 
had  conducted  a  suit  against  her;  to  this  very  day  that  ram  is 
always  butting  about.  Finally,  however,  public  indignation  was 
aroused  by  so  many  people  coming  to  harm  through  her  arts; 
and   the  very  next  day  had  been  fixed  upon  to  wreak  a  fearful 


LUCIUS  APULEIUS 


603 


vengeance  on  her,  by  stoning  her  to  death.  She  frustrated  the 
design  by  her  enchantments.  You  remember  how  Medea,  hav- 
ing got  Creon  to  allow  her  just  one  day  before  her  departure, 
burned  his  whole  palace,  with  himself  and  his  daughter  in  it,  by 
means  of  flames  issuing  from  a  garland  ?  Well,  this  sorceress, 
having  performed  certain  deadly  incantations  in  a  ditch  (she  told 
me  so  herself  in  a  drunken  fit),  confined  everybody  in  the  town 
each  in  his  own  house  for  two  whole  days,  by  a  secret  spell  of 
the  demons.  The  bars  could  not  be  wrenched  off,  nor  the  doors 
taken  off  the  hinges,  nor  even  a  breach  made  in  the  walls.  At 
last,  by  common  consent,  the  people  all  swore  they  would  not 
lift  a  hand  against  her,  and  would  come  to  her  defense  if  any 
one  else  did.  She  then  liberated  the  whole  city.  But  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  she  conveyed  the  author  of  the  conspiracy, 
with  all  his  house,  close  barred  as  it  was,  —  the  walls,  thei  very 
Ground,  and  even  the  foundations, — to  another  city  a  hundred 
miles  off,  on  the  top  of  a  craggy  mountain,  and  so  without  water. 
And  as  the  houses  of  the  inhabitants  were  built  so  close  together 
that  there  was  not  room  for  the  new-comer,  she  threw  down  the 
house  before  the  gate  of  the  city  and  took  her  departure.** 

^^You  narrate  marvelous  things,'*  said  I,  "my  good  Socrates; 
and  no  less  terrible  than  marvelous.  In  fact,  you  have  excited 
no  small  anxiety  (indeed  I  may  say  fear)  in  me  too;  not  a  mere 
grain  of  apprehension,  but  a  piercing  dread  for  fear  this  old  hag 
should  come  to  know  our  conversation  in  the  same  way,  by  the 
help  of  some  demon.  Let  us  get  to  bed  without  delay;  and 
when  we  have  rested  ourselves  by  a  little  sleep,  let  us  fly  as  far 
as  we  possibly  can  before  daylight." 

While  I  was  still  advising  him  thus,  the  worthy  Socrates, 
overcome  by  more  wine  than  he  was  used  to  and  by  his  fatigue, 
had  fallen  asleep  and  was  snoring  loudly.  I  shut  the  door,  drew 
the  bolts,  and  placing  my  bed  close  against  the  hinges,  tossed  it 
up  well  and  lay  down  on  it.  I  lay  awake  some  time  through 
fear,  but  closed  my  eyes  at  last  a  little  before  midnight. 

I  had  just  fallen  asleep,  when  suddenly  the  door  was  burst 
open  with  such  violence  that  it  was  evidently  not  done  by  rob- 
bers; the  hinges  were  absolutely  broken  and  wrenched  off,  and  it 
was  thrown  to  the  ground.  The  small  bedstead,  minus  one  foot 
and  rotten,  was  also  upset  by  the  shock;  and  falling  upon  me, 
who  had  been  rolled  out  on  the  floor,  it  completely  covered  and 
hid  me.     Then  I  perceived  that  certain  emotions  can  be  excited 


6o4 


LUCIUS  APULEIUS 


by  exactly  opposite  causes;  for  as  tears  often  come  from  joy,  so, 
in  spite  of  my  terror,  I  could  not  help  laughing  to  see  myself 
turned  from  Aristomenes  into  a  tortoise.  As  I  lay  on  the  floor, 
completely  covered  by  the  bed,  and  peeping  out  to  see  what  was 
the  matter,  I  saw  two  old  women,  one  carrying  a  lighted  lamp 
and  the  other  a  sponge  and  a  drawn  sword,  plant  themselves  on 
either  side  of  Socrates,  who  was  fast  asleep. 

The  one  with  the  sword  said  to  the  other:  —  ^*This,  sister 
Panthea,  is  my  dear  Endymion,  my  Ganymede,  who  by  day  and 
by  night  has  laughed  my  youth  to  scorn.  This  is  he  who,  de- 
spising my  passion,  not  only  defames  me  with  abusive  language, 
but  is  preparing  also  for  flight;  and  I  forsooth,  deserted  through 
the  craft  of  this  Ulysses,  like  another  Calypso,  am  to  be  left  to 
lament  in  eternal  loneliness !  *^ 

Then  extending  her  right  hand,  and  pointing  me  out  to  her 
friend  Panthea:  — 

**And  there, '^  said  she,  "is  his  worthy  counselor,  Aristomenes, 
who  was  the  planner  of  this  flight,  and  who  now,  half  dead,  is 
lying  flat  on  the  ground  under  the  bedstead  and  looking  at  all 
that  is  going  on,  while  he  fancies  that  he  is  to  tell  scandalous 
stories  of  me  with  impunity.  I'll  take  care,  however,  that  some 
day,  aye,  and  before  long,  too, — this  very  instant,  in  fact, — he 
shall  repent  of  his  recent  chatter  and  his  present  curiosity." 

On  hearing  this  I  felt  myself  streaming  with  cold  perspiration, 
and  my  heart  began  to  throb  so  violently  that  even  the  bedstead 
danced  on  my  back. 

**Well,  sister,"  said  the  worthy  Panthea,  "shall  we  hack  him 
to  pieces  at  once,  like  the  Bacchanals,  or  tie  his  limbs  and 
mutilate  him  ? " 

To  this  Meroe  replied,  —  and  I  saw  from  what  was  happening, 
as  well  as  from  what  Socrates  had  told,  how  well  the  name  fitted 
her,  — "  Rather  let  him  live,  if  only  to  cover  the  body  of  this 
wretched  creature  with  a  little  earth." 

Then,  moving  Socrates's  head  to  one  side,  she  plunged  the 
sword  into  his  throat  up  to  the  hilt,  catching  the  blood  in  a 
small  leathern  bottle  so  carefully  that  not  a  drop  of  it  was  to 
be  seen.  All  this  I  saw  with  my  own  eyes.  The  worthy 
Meroe  —  in  order,  I  suppose,  not  to  omit  any  due  observance  in 
the  sacrifice  of  the  victim  —  then  thrust  her  right  hand  through 
the  wound,  and  drew  forth  the  heart  of  my  unhappy  companion. 
His    windpipe    being    severed,    he    emitted    a    sort    of    indistinct 


LUCIUS  APULEIUS 


605 


gurgling  noise,  and  poured  forth  his  breath  with  his  bubbling 
blood.  Panthea  then  stopped  the  gaping  wound  with  a  sponge, 
exclaiming,  "  Beware,  O  sea-born  sponge,  how  thou  dost  pass 
through  a  river !  '* 

When  she  had  said  this,  they  lifted  my  bed  from  the  ground, 
and  dashed  over  me  a  mass  of  filth. 

Hardly  had  they  passed  over  the  threshold  when  the  door 
resumed  its  former  state.  The  hinges  settled  back  on  the  pan- 
els, the  posts  returned  to  the  bars,  and  the  bolts  flew  back  to 
their  sockets  again.  I  lay  prostrate  on  the  ground  in  a  squalid 
plight,  terrified,  naked,  cold,  and  drenched.  Indeed,  I  was  half 
dead,  though  still  alive;  and  pursued  a  train  of  reflections  like 
one  already  in  the  grave,  or  to  say  the  least  on  the  way  to  the 
cross,  to  which  I  was  surely  destined.  ^*What,*  said  I,  **will 
become  of  me,  when  this  man  is  found  in  the  morning  with  his 
throat  cut  ?  If  I  tell  the  truth,  who  will  believe  a  word  of  the 
story  ?  *  You  ought  at  least,  *  they  will  say,  ^  to  have  called 
for  help,  if  as  strong  a  man  as  you  are  could  not  withstand  a 
woman!  Is  a  man's  throat  to  be  cut  before  your  eyes,  and  you 
keep  silence  ?  Why  was  it  that  you  were  not  assassinated  too  ? 
How  did  the  villains  come  to  spare  you,  a  witness  of  the  murder  ? 
They  would  naturally  kill  you,  if  only  to  put  an  end  to  all 
evidence  of  the  crime.  Since  your  escape  from  death  was  against 
reason,  return  to  it.  ^  ^^ 

I  said  these  things  to  myself  over  and  over  again,  while  the 
night  was  fast  verging  toward  day.  It  seemed  best  to  me,  there- 
fore, to  escape  on  the  sly  before  daylight  and  pursue  my  journey, 
though  I  was  all  in  a  tremble.  I  took  up  my  bundle,  put  the 
key  in  the  door,  and  drew  back  the  bolts.  But  this  good  and 
faithful  door,  which  had  opened  of  its  own  accord  in  the  night, 
would  not  open  now  till  I  had  tried  the  key  again  and  again. 

^*  Hallo,  porter !  '*  said  I,  **  where  are  you  ?  Open  the  gate,  I 
want  to  be  off  before  daybreak.'* 

The  porter,  who  was  lying  on  the  ground  behind  the  door, 
only  grunted,  **Why  do  you  want  to  begin  a  journey  at  this  time 
of  night  ?  Don't  you  know  the  roads  are  infested  by  robbers  ? 
You  may  have  a  mind  to  meet  your  death,  — perhaps  your  con- 
science stings  you  for  some  crime  you  have  committed;  but  I 
haven't  a  head  like  a  pumpkin,  that  I  should  die  for  your  sake !  * 

**It  isn't  very  far  from  daybreak, **  said  I;  and  besides,  what 
can   robbers  take   from   a  traveler  in  utter  poverty  ?      Don't   you 


6o5  LUCIUS  APULEIUS 

know,  you  fool,  that  a  naked  man  can't  be  stripped  by  ten  ath- 
letes ? » 

The  drowsy  porter  turned  over  and  answered: — "And  how 
am  I  to  know  but  what  you  have  murdered  that  fellow-traveler 
of  yours  that  you  came  here  with  last  night,  and  are  running 
away  to  save  yourself  ?  And  now  I  remember  that  I  saw  Tar- 
tarus through  a  hole  in  the  earth  just  at  that  hour,  and  Cerberus 
looking  ready  to  eat  me  up." 

Then  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  worthy  Meroe  had 
not  spared  my  throat  out  of  pity,  but  to  reserve  me  for  the 
cross.  So,  on  returning  to  my  chamber,  I  thought  over  some 
speedy  method  of  putting  an  end  to  myself;  but  fortune  had 
provided  me  with  no  weapon  for  self-destruction,  except  the 
bedstead.  "Now,  bedstead,'*  said  I,  "most  dear  to  my  soul, 
partner  with  me  in  so  many  sorrows,  fully  conscious  and  a  spec- 
tator of  this  night's  events,  and  whom  alone  when  accused  I  can 
adduce  as  a  witness  of  my  innocence  —  do  thou  supply  me  (who 
would  fain  hasten  to  the  shades  below)  a  welcome  instrument 
of  death. » 

Thus  saying,  I  began  to  undo  the  bed-cord.  I  threw  one  end 
of  it  over  a  small  beam  projecting  above  the  window,  fastened  it 
there,  and  made  a  slip-knot  at  the  other  end.  Then  I  mounted 
on  the  bed,  and  thus  elevated  for  my  own  destruction,  put  my 
head  into  the  noose  and  kicked  away  my  support  with  one  foot; 
so  that  the  noose,  tightened  about  my  throat  by  the  strain  of  my 
weight,  might  stop  my  breath.  But  the  rope,  which  was  old  and 
rotten,  broke  in  two;  and  falling  from  aloft,  I  tumbled  heavily 
upon  Socrates,  who  was  lying  close  by,  and  rolled  with  him  on 
the  floor. 

Lo  and  behold!  at  that  very  instant  the  porter  burst  into 
the  room,  bawling  out,  "Where  are  you,  you  who  were  in  such 
monstrous  haste  to  be  off  at  midnight,  and  now  lie  snoring,  rolled 
up  in  the  bed-clothes  ?  " 

At  these  words  —  whether  awakened  by  my  fall  or  by  the 
rasping  voice  of  the  porter,  I  know  not  —  Socrates  was  the  first 
to  start  up ;  and  he  exclaimed,  "  Evidently  travelers  have  good 
reason  for  detesting  these  hostlers.  This  nuisance  here,  breaking 
in  without  being  asked, —  most  likely  to  steal  something, — has 
waked  me  out  of  a  sound  sleep  by  his  outrageous  bellowing.'* 

On  hearing  him  speak  I  jumped  up  briskly,  in  an  ecstasy 
cf  unhoped-for  joy :  — "  Faithfulest  of  porters, "  I  exclaimed,    "  my 


LUCIUS  APULEIUS 


607 


friend,  my  own  father,  and  my  brother, — behold  him  whom  you, 
in  your  drunken  fit,  falsely  accuse  me  of  having  murdered.** 

So  saying-,  I  embraced  Socrates,  and  was  for  loading  him  with 
kisses;  but  he  repulsed  me  with  considerable  violence.  "Get  out 
with  you !  **  he  cried.  Sorely  confused,  I  trumped  up  some  absurd 
story  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  to  give  another  turn  to  the 
conversation,  and  taking  him  by  the  right  hand  — 

"Why  not  be  off,**  said  I,  "and  enjoy  the  freshness  of  the 
morning  on  our  journey  ?  ** 

So  I  took  my  bundle,  and  having  paid  the  innkeeper  for  our 
night's  lodging,  we  started  on  our  road. 

We  had  gone  some  little  distance,  and  now,  everything  being 
illumined  by  the  beams  of  the  rising  sun,  I  keenly  and  attentively 
examined  that  part  of  my  companion's  neck  into  which  I  had  seen 
the  sword  plunged. 

"  Foolish  man,  **  said  I  to  myself,  "  buried  in  your  cups,  you 
certainly  have  had  a  most  absurd  dream.  Why,  look:  here's  Soc- 
rates, safe,  sound,  and  hearty.  Where  is  the  wound  ?  Where  is 
the  sponge  ?     Where  is  the  scar  of  a  gash  so  deep  and  so  recent  ?  ** 

Addressing  myself  to  him,  I  remarked,  "  No  wonder  the  doc- 
tors say  that  hideous  and  ominous  dreams  come  only  to  people 
stuffed  with  food  and  liquor.  My  own  case  is  a  good  instance. 
I  went  beyond  moderation  in  my  drinking  last  evening,  and  have 
passed  a  wretched  night  full  of  shocking  and  dreadful  visions,  so 
that  I  still  fancy  myself  spattered  and  defiled  with  human  gore.** 

"  It  is  not  gore,  **  he  replied  with  a  smile,  "  that  you  are 
sprinkled  with.  And  yet  in  my  sleep  I  thought  my  own  throat 
was  being  cut,  and  felt  some  pain  in  my  neck,  and  fancied  that 
my  very  heart  was  being  plucked  out.  Even  now  I  am  quite 
faint;  my  knees  tremble;  I  stagger  as  I  go,  and  feel  in  want  of 
some  food  to  hearten  me  up.** 

"Look,**  cried  I,  "here  is  breakfast  all  ready  for  you.**  So 
saying,  I  lifted  my  wallet  from  my  shoulders,  handed  him  some 
bread  and  cheese,  and  said,  "  Let  us  sit  down  near  that  plane- 
tree.**  We  did  so,  and  I  helped  myself  to  some  refreshment. 
While  looking  at  him  more  closely,  as  he  was  eating  with  a 
voracious  appetite,  I  saw  that  he  was  faint,  and  of  a  hue  like 
boxwood.  His  natural  color,  in  fact,  had  so  forsaken  him,  that 
as  I  recalled  those  nocturnal  furies  to  my  frightened  imagination, 
the  very  first  piece  of  bread  I  put  in  my  mouth,  though  exceed- 
ingly small,  stuck   in   the   middle   of  my  throat  and  would  pass 


6o8  LUCIUS  APULEIUS 

neither  downward  nor  upward.  Besides,  the  number  of  people 
passing  along  increased  my  fears;  for  who  would  believe  that  one 
of  two  companions  could  meet  his  death  except  at  the  hands  of 
the  other  ? 

Presently,  after  having  gorged  himself  with  food,  he  began  to 
be  impatient  for  some  drink,  for  he  had  bolted  the  larger  part  of 
an  excellent  cheese.  Not  far  from  the  roots  of  the  plane-tree  a 
gentle  stream  flowed  slowly  along,  like  a  placid  lake,  rivaling 
silver  or  crystal. 

"  Look,  '^  said  I :  "  drink  your  fill  of  the  water  of  this  stream, 
bright  as  the  Milky  Way.^^ 

He  arose,  and,  wrapping  himself  in  his  cloak,  with  his  knees 
doubled  under  him,  knelt  down  upon  the  shelving  bank  and  bent 
greedily  toward  the  water.  Scarcely  had  he  touched  its  surface 
with  his  lips,  when  the  wound  in  his  throat  burst  open  and  the 
sponge  rolled  out,  a  few  drops  of  blood  with  it;  and  his  lifeless 
body  would  have  fallen  into  the  river  had  I  not  laid  hold  of  one 
of  his  feet,  and  dragged  him  with  great  difficulty  and  labor  to 
the  top  of  the  bank.  There,  having  mourned  my  hapless  com- 
rade as  much  as  there  was  time,  I  buried  him  in  the  sandy  soil 
that  bordered  the  stream.  Then,  trembling  and  terror-siricken,  I 
fled  through  various  unfrequented  places;  and  as  though  guilty  of 
homicide,  abandoned  my  country  and  my  home,  embraced  a  vol- 
untary exile,  and  now  dwell  in  -^tolia,  where  I  have  married 
another  wife. 

Translated  for  <A  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Literature. > 

THE  AWAKENING   OF   CUPID 

[The  radical  difference  in  the  constituent  parts  of  the  <  Golden  Ass>  is 
startling,  and  is  well  illustrated  by  the  selection  given  previously  and  that 
which  follows.  The  story  of  the  «  drummer »  comports  exactly  with  the  mod- 
ern  idea  of  realism  in  fiction:  a  vivid  and  unflinching  picture  of  manners  and 
morals,  full  of  broad  coarse  humor  and  worldly  wit.  The  story  of  Cupid  and 
Psyche  is  the  purest,  daintiest,  most  poetic  of  fancies;  in  essence  a  fairy  tale 
that  might  be  told  of  an  evening  by  the  fire-light  in  the  second  century  or 
the  nineteenth,  but  embodying  also  a  high  and  beautiful  allegory,  and  treated 
with  a  delicate  art  which  is  in  extreme  contrast  with  the  body  of  the  <  Golden 
Ass.>  The  difference  is  almost  as  striking  as  between  Gray's  lampoon  on 
« Jemmy  Twitcher»  and  his  <Bard>  or  <  Elegy  >,  or  between  Aristophanes' s 
revels  in  filth  and  his  ecstatic  soarings  mto  the  heavenliest  regions  of  poetry. 

The  contrast  is  even  more  rasping  when  we  remember  that  the  tale  is 
not  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  girl  gazing  dreamily  into  the  glowing  coals  on 
the  hearth,  or  of  some  elegant  reciter  amusing   a  social  group  in  a  Roman 


LUCIUS  APULEIUS  6oq 

drawing-room  or  garden,  but  of  a  grizzled  hag  who  is  maid  of  all  work  in  a 
robbers'  cave.  She  tells  it  to  divert  the  mind  of  a  lovely  young  bride  held 
for  ransom.  It  begins  like  a  modem  fairy  tale,  wnth  a  great  king  and  queen 
who  had  « three  daughters  of  remarkable  beauty,"  the  loveliest  being  the 
peerless  Psyche.  Even  Venus  becomes  envious  of  the  honors  paid  to  Psyche's 
charms,  and  summons  Cupid  to  wing  one  of  his  shafts  \vhich  shall  cause  he» 
*<to  be  seized  with  the  most  burning  love  for  the  lowest  of  mankind, >>  so  as 
to  disgrace  and  ruin  her.  Cupid  undertakes  the  task,  but  instead  falls  in 
love  with  her  himself.  Meanwhile  an  oracle  from  Apollo,  instigated  by 
Venus,  dooms  her  to  be  sacrificed  in  marriage  to  some  unknown  aerial  mon- 
ster, who  must  find  her  alone  on  a  naked  rock.  She  is  so  placed,  awaiting 
her  doom  in  terror;  but  the  zephyrs  bear  her  away  to  the  palace  of  Love. 
Cupid  hides  her  there,  lest  Venus  wreak  vengeance  on  them  both :  and  there, 
half  terrified  but  soon  soothed,  in  the  darkness  of  night  she  hears  from  Cupid 
that  he,  her  husband,  is  no  monster,  but  the  fairest  of  immortals.  He  will 
not  disclose  his  identity,  however;  not  only  so,  but  he  tenderly  warns  her 
that  she  must  not  seek  to  discover  it,  or  even  to  behold  him,  till  he  gives 
permission,  unless  she  would  bring  hopeless  disaster  on  both.  Nor  must  she 
confide  in  her  two  sisters,  lest  their  unwisdom  or  sudden  envy  cause  harm. 

The  simple-hearted  and  affectionate  girl,  however,  in  her  craving  for  sym- 
pathy, cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  boast  of  her  happiness  to  her  sisters. 
She  invites  them  to  pass  a  day  in  her  magnificent  new  home,  and  tells  con- 
tradictory stories  about  her  husband.  Alas!  they  depart  bitterly  envious,  and 
plotting  to  make  her  ruin  her  own  joy  out  of  fear  and  curiosity.] 

<'T  1  /"HAT  are  we  to  say,  sister,  [said  one  to  the  other]  of  the 
y  Y  monstrous  lies  of  that  silly  creature  ?  At  one  time  her 
husband  is  a  young  man,  with  the  down  just  showing 
itself  on  his  chin;  at  another  he  is  of  middle  age,  and  his  hair 
begins  to  be  silvered  with  gray.  .  .  .  You  may  depend  upon 
it,  sister,  either  the  wretch  has  invented  these  lies  to  deceive  us, 
or  else  she  does  not  know  herself  how  her  husband  looks.  Which- 
ever is  the  case,  she  must  be  deprived  of  these  riches  as  soon  as 
possible.  And  yet,  if  she  is  really  ignorant  of  her  husband's 
appearance,  she  must  no  doubt  have  married  a  god,  and  who  knows 
what  will  happen  ?  At  all  events,  if  —  which  heaven  forbid  —  she 
does  become  the  mother  of  a  divine  infant,  I  shall  instantly  hang 
myself.  Meanwhile  let  us  return  to  our  parents,  and  devise 
some  scheme  based  on  what  we  have  just  been  saying.'* 

The  sisters,  thus  inflamed  with  jealousy,  called  on  their  par- 
ents in  a  careless  and  disdainful  manner;  and  after  being  kept 
awake  all  night  by  the  turbulence  of  their  spirits,  made  all  haste 
at  morning  to  the  rock,  whence,  by  the  wonted  assistance  of  the 
breeze,  they  descended  swiftly  to  Psyche,  and  with  tears  squeezed 
out  by  rubbing  their  eyelids,  thus  craftily  addressed  her:  — 
11—39 


6lO  LUCIUS  APULEIUS 

**  Happy  indeed  are  you,  and  fortunate  in  your  very  ignorance 
of  so  heavy  a  misfortune.  There  you  sit,  without  a  thought 
of  danger;  while  we,  your  sisters,  who  watch  over  your  interests 
with  the  most  vigilant  care,  are  in  anguish  at  your  lost  condi- 
tion. For  we  have  learned  as  truth,  and  as  sharers  in  your 
sorrows  and  misfortunes  cannot  conceal  it  from  you,  that  it  is 
an  enormous  serpent,  gliding  along  in  many  folds  and  coils, 
with  a  neck  swollen  with  deadly  venom,  and  prodigious  gaping 
jaws,  that  secretly  sleeps  with  you  by  night.  Remember  the 
Pythian  Oracle.  Besides,  a  great  many  of  the  husbandmen,  who 
hunt  all  round  the  country,  and  ever  so  many  of  the  neighbors, 
have  observed  him  returning  home  from  his  feeding-place  in  the 
evening.  All  declare,  too,  that  he  will  not  long  continue  to 
pamper  you  with  delicacies,  but  will  presently  devour  you.  Will 
you  listen  to  us,  who  are  so  anxious  for  your  precious  safety,  and 
avoiding  death,  live  with  us  secure  from  danger,  or  die  hor- 
ribly? But  if  you  are  fascinated  by  your  country  home,  or  by 
the  endearments  of  a  serpent,  we  have  at  all  events  done  our 
duty  toward  you,  like  affectionate  sisters." 

Poor,  simple,  tender-hearted  Psyche  was  aghast  with  horror 
at  this  dreadful  story;  and  quite  bereft  of  her  senses,  lost  all 
remembrance  of  her  husband's  admonitions  and  of  her  own 
promises,  and  hurled  herself  headlong  into  the  very  abyss  of 
calamity.  Trembling,  therefore,  with  pale  and  livid  cheeks  and 
an  almost  lifeless  voice,  she  faltered  out  these  broken  words:  — 

**  Dearest  sisters,  you  have  acted  toward  me  as  you  ought, 
and  with  your  usual  affectionate  care;  and  indeed,  it  appears 
to  me  that  those  who  gave  you  this  information  have  not  in- 
vented a  falsehood.  For,  in  fact,  I  have  never  yet  beheld  my 
husband's  face,  nor  do  I  know  at  all  whence  he  comes.  I  only 
hear  him  speak  in  an  undertone  by  night,  and  have  to  bear 
with  a  husband  of  an  unknown  appearance,  and  one  that  has 
an  utter  aversion  to  the  light  of  day.  He  may  well,  therefore, 
be  some  monster  or  other.  Besides,  he  threatens  some  shocking 
misfortune  as  the  consequence  of  indulging  any  curiosity  to  view 
his  features.  So,  then,  if  you  are  able  to  give  any  aid  to  your 
sister  in  this  perilous  emergency,  don't  delay  a  moment.* 

[One  of  them  replies: — ] 

*  Since  the  ties  of  blood  oblige  us  to  disregard  peril  when 
your   safety  is  to   be   insiired,  we   will   tell   you   the   only  means 


LUCIUS  APULEros  5x1 

of  safety.  We  have  considered  it  over  and  over  again.  On 
that  side  of  the  bed  where  you  are  used  to  lie,  conceal  a 
very  sharp  razor;  and  also  hide  under  the  tapestry  a  lighted 
lamp,  well  trimmed  and  full  of  oil.  Make  these  preparations 
with  the  utmost  secrecy.  After  the  monster  has  glided  into  bed 
as  usual,  when  he  is  stretched  out  at  length,  fast  asleep  and 
breathing  heavily,  as  you  slide  out  of  bed,  go  softly  along  with 
bare  feet  and  on  tiptoe,  and  bring  out  the  lamp  from  its  hiding- 
place;  then  having  the  aid  of  its  light,  raise  your  right  hand, 
bring  down  the  weapon  with  all  your  might,  and  cut  oflP  the 
head  of  the  creature  at  the  neck.  Then  we  will  bring  you  away 
with  all  these  things,  and  if  you  wish,  will  wed  you  to  a  human 
creature  like  yourself." 

[They  then  depart,  fearing  for  themselves  if  they  are  near  when  the  catas- 
trophe happens.] 

But  Psyche,  now  left  alone,  except  so  far  as  a  person  who  is 
agitated  by  maddening  Furies  is  not  alone,  fluctuated  in  sorrow 
like  a  stormy  sea;  and  though  her  purpose  was  fixed  and  her 
heart  was  resolute  when  she  first  began  to  make  preparations 
for  the  impious  work,  her  mind  now  wavered,  and  feared.  She 
hurried,  she  procrastinated;  now  she  was  bold,  now  tremulous; 
now  dubious,  now  agitated  by  rage;  and  what  was  the  most 
singular  thing  of  all,  in  the  same  being  she  hated  the  beast 
and  loved  the  husband.  Nevertheless,  as  the  evening  drew  to  a 
close,  she  hurriedly  prepared  the  instruments  of  her  enterprise. 

The  night  came,  and  with  it  her  husband.  After  he  fell 
asleep,  Psyche,  to  whose  weak  body  and  spirit  the  cruel  influence 
of  fate  imparted  unusual  strength,  uncovered  the  lamp,  and 
seized  the  knife  with  the  courage  of  a  man.  But  the  instant 
she  advanced,  she  beheld  the  very  gentlest  and  sweetest  of  all 
creatures,  even  Cupid  himself,  the  beautiful  God  of  Love,  there 
fast  asleep;  at  sight  of  whom,  the  joyous  flame  of  the  lamp 
shone  with  redoubled  vigor,  and  the  sacrilegious  dagger  repented 
the  keenness  of  its  edge. 

But  Psyche,  losing  the  control  of  her  senses,  faint,  deadly 
pale,  and  trembling  all  over,  fell  on  her  knees,  and  made  an 
attempt  to  hide  the  blade  in  her  own  bosom;  and  this  no  doubt 
she  would  have  done  had  not  the  blade,  dreading  the  commission 
of  such  a  crime,  glided  out  of  her  rash  hand.  And  now,  faint 
and  unnerved  as  she  was,  she  telt  herself  refreshed  at  heart  by 


6l2  LUCIUS  APULEIUS 

gazing  upon  the  beauty  of  those  divine  features.  She  looked 
upon  the  genial  locks  of  his  golden  head,  teeming  with  ambrosial 
perfume,  the  circling  curls  that  strayed  over  his  milk-white  neck 
and  roseate  cheeks,  and  fell  gracefully  entangled,  some  before 
and  some  behind,  causing  the  very  light  of  the  lamp  itself  to 
flicker  by  their  radiant  splendor.  On  the  shoulders  of  the  god 
were  dewy  wings  of  brilliant  whiteness;  and  though  the  pinions 
were  at  rest,  yet  the  tender  down  that  fringed  the  feathers 
wantoned  to  and  fro  in  tremulous,  unceasmg  play.  The  rest  of 
his  body  was  smooth  and  beautiful,  and  such  as  Venus  could  not 
have  repented  of  giving  birth  to.  At  the  foot  of  his  bed  lay  his 
bow,  his  quiver,  and  his  arrows,  the  auspicious  weapons  of  the 
mighty  god. 

While  with  insatiable  wonder  and  curiosity  Psyche  is  exam- 
ining and  admiring  her  husband's  weapons,  she  draws  one  of  the 
arrows  out  of  the  quiver,  and  touches  the  point  with  the  tip  of 
her  thumb  to  try  its  sharpness;  but  happening  to  press  too  hard, 
for  her  hand  still  trembled,  she  punctured  the  skin,  so  that  some 
tiny  drops  of  rosy  blood  oozed  forth.  And  thus  did  Psyche, 
without  knowing  it,  fall  in  love  with  Love.  Then,  burning 
more  and  more  with  desire  for  Cupid,  gazing  passionately  on  his 
face,  and  fondly  kissing  him  again  and  again,  her  only  fear  was 
lest  he  should  wake  too  soon. 

But  while  she  hung  over  him,  bewildered  with  delight  so 
overpowering,  the  lamp,  whether  from  treachery  or  baneful  envy, 
or  because  it  longed  to  touch,  and  to  kiss  as  it  were,  so  beau- 
tiful an  object,  spirted  a  drop  of  scalding  oil  from  the  summit  of 
its  flame  upon  the  right  shoulder  of  the  god.  .  .  .  The  god, 
thus  scorched,  sprang  from  the  bed,  and  seeing  the  disgrace- 
ful tokens  of  forfeited  fidelity,  started  to  fly  away,  without  a 
word,  from  the  eyes  and  arms  of  his  most  unhappy  wife.  But 
Psyche,  the  instant  he  arose,  seized  hold  of  his  right  leg  with 
both  hands,  and  hung  on  to  him,  a  wretched  appendage  to  his 
flight  through  the  regions  of  the  air,  till  at  last  her  strength 
failed  her,  and  she  fell  to  the  earth. 

Translation  of  Bohn  Library,  revised. 


P                  14  DAY  USE                     i 

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LD  21A-50m-8,'57                                University  of  California 
(C8481sl0)476B                                                 Berkeley 

